War did not arrive.
It was invoked.
The Distortion Realm collapsed outward in a violent implosion, spilling Netoshka and Malithra back into reality like shattered code recompiled incorrectly. The skyline reformed—but wrong. Buildings bent inward at impossible angles, streets spiraled like veins, and the sky burned crimson as BlightMist-9 reached critical saturation.
Malithra completed her Ascension.
Her Layer did not merely expand—it declared dominion.
Spines elongated into cathedral-like structures of bone and void-metal. Her lower body split into multiple anchoring limbs that pierced the planet itself, rooting her into tectonic plates. Each movement sent seismic ruptures across continents. Her chest opened, revealing a pulsing core of compressed hatred—memories of civilizations erased, prayers unanswered, wars repeated endlessly by the same ignorant species.
Her voice no longer needed sound.
It was felt.
> War is your inheritance.
Hatred is your language.
I am merely its final refinement.
Across the city, soldiers dropped to their knees—not dead, but overwhelmed. Synarchy command structures collapsed instantly as their neural uplinks flooded with visions of endless slaughter. Weapons were turned on allies. Civilians trampled one another in blind panic. The BlightMist fed on it all, blooming into scarlet storms that swallowed districts whole.
Malithra raised one limb.
A nation screamed.
Somewhere far away, an entire mountain range sheared sideways, collapsing into the sea as if sliced by a god's blade.
Netoshka stood at the epicenter.
Barely.
Her feet hovered inches above fractured ground, sustained only by glitch-fields screaming under strain. Every breath felt borrowed. Every heartbeat lagged half a second behind reality.
She looked small.
Malithra looked at her.
"You feel it now," Malithra said, her tone almost gentle.
"The truth humanity denies. They worship peace while forging weapons. They cry for mercy while sharpening knives."
Netoshka clenched her fists.
"They suffer because of you."
Malithra's many eyes narrowed.
"No. They suffer because they refuse to end."
She advanced.
Each step generated shockwaves of raw intent—war given form. Netoshka glitched repeatedly just to stay intact, her body fragmenting into afterimages that barely reassembled before the next impact.
Malithra struck.
Netoshka raised her arms—
—and the force shattered them anyway.
Bone splintered. Systems failed. Pain surged hot and absolute. She crashed through layers of debris, skidding across molten concrete before slamming into the remains of a collapsed tower.
Malithra loomed above her.
"You are not my enemy," she said.
"You are my proof."
Netoshka coughed blood, vision flickering.
"Proof of what…?"
"That even diluted "Yv'Ghrothl'Gna'Uidrr" blood still rejects humanity."
She grabbed Netoshka by the throat, lifting her effortlessly.
"You fight. You kill. You rage. You justify it with ideals, but beneath it all—"
Her grip tightened.
"—you are closer to me than them."
Something snapped.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
The world froze.
Inferius — Distant Signal
Miles away, deep in the desert evacuation corridor, Rue staggered.
She pressed a hand to her helmet.
"…Netoshka?"
Static. Then—
A pulse.
A wrong one.
Circe's systems screamed.
"That signal—no—it's not Malithra—it's Neto—she's spiking across multiple dimensions—"
Lyra's grip tightened on her weapon.
"She's breaking."
"No," Circe whispered.
"She's changing."
Internal Rage
Inside Netoshka, the "Yv'Ghrothl'Gna'Uidrr" stirred.
Not whispering.
Roaring.
Fragments of impossible memory flooded her mind—civilizations devouring themselves, stars collapsing into recursive singularities, beings that rejected creation itself as a flawed equation.
She saw Malithra not as a goddess—
—but as a failed solution.
Her vision sharpened.
The numbers stabilized.
Her pain dulled.
Slowly—deliberately—Netoshka wrapped her shattered arm around Malithra's wrist.
The grip held.
Malithra's eyes widened—for the first time.
"…Impossible."
Netoshka looked up.
Her eyes burned with corrupted light, glitch-symbols orbiting her pupils like broken halos.
"I am not your proof," Netoshka said quietly.
She tightened her grip.
"I am not your exception."
" I'm the One that's gonna Kick Your Ass, Stupid Alien Bitch"
Reality fractured around them.
Netoshka's body began to emit distortion waves—not destructive, but corrective. Malithra felt it immediately: her attacks misfired, her strikes landing where Netoshka used to be, causality bending just enough to ruin perfection.
"You defy inevitability," Malithra hissed.
Netoshka surged upward, slamming her forehead into Malithra's core.
The impact echoed across dimensions.
"You made war," Netoshka growled.
"I'll end it."
Malithra reeled back—not wounded, but angered.
Her hatred intensified, the sky darkening as new Layers threatened to unfold.
"Then come," Malithra roared.
"Anomaly. Grothlyte Spawn. Mistake given flesh."
She spread her arms wide.
"Let us see if even you can survive a god's wrath."
The planet groaned.
Space folded.
The true battle—not for survival, but for dominion over meaning itself—had begun.