The humiliation was palpable. In the oppressive silence imposed by the Lord of the Flies, the prestige of the Olympians and the Queen of Helheim had crumbled like old parchment.
Hades was the first to straighten up, though his dark aura was reduced to a mere dull veil. He looked at his hands, then stared at Beelzebub. He knew that in this realm of decay, his powers over souls were nothing compared to those who ruled over the annihilation of matter.
"Tartarus will remember this affront, Guardian," Hades said in a hoarse voice. "But I will not sacrifice my realm for an Anomaly that will ultimately devour us all."
With a sharp gesture, he struck the ground with his bident. A sulfuric rift opened, less out of power than out of necessity to escape. Pluto, whose golden armor was now covered with a thin film of black soot, said nothing. His gaze met Jormund's for a fraction of a second—a gaze laden with the promise of future vengeance—before he evaporated in a cloud of precious dust.
The two Greek rulers disappeared, leaving behind a smell of burning that was instantly purified by the darkness of Beelzebub.
Only Hel remained.
She did not move. Her corpse-like skin seemed to crack under the effect of the vacuum. Unlike the Greeks, Hel had no territory to protect here; she had only her obsession with the Anomaly. Her electric blue eyes stared at Jormund with mad intensity.
"You think you've won, little Jötunn?" she hissed, ignoring Beelzebub's threat hanging over her. "You've only delayed the inevitable. The time you've stolen will claim you."
"She... speaks... again," Beelzebub murmured, his tone becoming dangerously high-pitched, like the rubbing of millions of wings.
The Lord of the Flies moved toward Hel. The air around the queen began to liquefy, her frost-covered clothes falling away in shreds. She finally understood. Even for a goddess of death, Beelzebub represented an end she was not ready to face.
In a final blizzard-like howl, Hel vanished, leaving the Forgotten Strait in deathly calm.
Jormund slowly rose from the rubble, Siegfried and Fenrir at his side. They were alive, but broken. The strait was now nothing more than a gaping wound in reality.
Jormund looked at Beelzebub. The danger had not passed. The Gods were gone, but now they were alone with the entity that had just defeated them.
"Why did you help us?" Jormund asked, his voice echoing in the void left by the Gods.
Beelzebub did not answer immediately. He observed the veins of gold running across Jormund's arms.
"I don't help... anyone. I clean... my house. But you... you are an infection I cannot leave here."
The Lord of the Flies raised both hands. The darkness did not recede. It intensified until it became a solid wall.