The Voidwalker Chronicles

They tried to summon him.

He came on his own.

Now, every all-powerful being across fiction stands united — not in peace, but in desperation. TOAA, The Presence, Featherine, Zeno, and countless others, prepared to erase the anomaly.

This is the battle they never thought they'd have to fight.

The moment they realized… they might not win.

The moment Nero Angelo turned his back, they moved.

All of them.

TOAA. The Presence. Zeno. Featherine. The Kami Tenchi. Even Azathoth stirred from his dreaming slumber. Countless omnipotent entities—those who shaped realities, defined laws, and gave meaning to existence—rose in perfect synchronization.

They didn't shout. They didn't threaten.

They simply acted.

A cosmic barrage of divine laws, narrative rewrites, conceptual erasure, chronological deconstruction, meta obliteration, and multiversal collapse all converged upon the lone boy who dared challenge them.

Nero didn't flinch.

He looked up at Clucknor—his feathered companion frozen mid-glare.

"… Not your fight."

With a quiet flick of his fingers, space folded. A soft shimmer surrounded Clucknor, and in a heartbeat, the little Void Chicken vanished—sent to a timeline untouched, unreachable. Safe.

Then Nero turned to face them all.

The gods, the writers, the dreamers and destroyers stood united.

"You act like I'm the problem," Nero said. "As if your judgment matters."

The Presence stepped forward, voice calm but commanding.

"You tread paths not meant to be walked. There is order, Nero Angelo. Balance. You cannot do whatever you please—"

"I can," Nero interrupted.

Zeno frowned. "You're scary, but breaking things forever isn't fun!"

Featherine narrowed her eyes. "Do you believe yourself above consequence?"

And then… he whispered it:

"Darkness Devour."

The cosmos dimmed. Sound died.

A dome of pure void exploded outward, swallowing everything.

Not space. Not shadow. Not absence.

This was anti-reality—a state where existence bent to one truth:

Nero's.

The gods vanished beneath the dome. They found themselves suspended in a black nothing, stripped of form, stripped of thought, stripped of power. Even their voices failed.

Only Nero stood within the abyss, untouched. Unbothered.

His voice echoed—not through air, but through law itself.

"This is my dominion. In here… you are less than dust."

And it became true.

TOAA stumbled, breathless, bleeding—he who had never bled.

Featherine reached for her narrative quill, only to find it shattered, unreadable.

The Presence tried to pray.

But Nero silenced gods like turning a page.

He walked among them in the void, his words shaping all.

"I lost everyone. Again, and again, and again. You did nothing."

With every step, the dome responded. Mountains of memory formed—each one showing Nero's torment. His family burning. His friends screaming. Cities in ruin. Universes collapsing.

And the gods watched, powerless, as he relived every moment they ignored.

"You talk about order," Nero spat, "but when I screamed for help, you were silent."

The gods knelt—not by choice, but by truth.

Finally, he waved his hand. The dome cracked open. Reality poured back in, color bleeding into the void as the gods returned to their thrones… shaking.

As Nero turned to leave, his back to the trembling pantheon, he said:

"I will do whatever I want. And if any of you try to stop me…"

He looked over his shoulder, eyes silver and dead.

"…make sure your stories can survive without you."

And then, like a breath exhaled from the multiverse, he was gone.