The sector of the Eastern Heavens had become a tableau of cosmic tragedy.
The Primal Singularity, that mountain of grey, unblinking eyes, sat at the center of a psychic web, its million pupils pulsing with a rhythm that had turned the wisest of the gods into puppets of the Void.
The air was thick with the scent of despair and the iron tang of divine blood spilled by the hands of brothers.
Shiva, the Destroyer, stood in the center of a cyclone of violet flame, his third eye was wide open, pouring out the fire of the Pralaya—the heat that ends universes—yet he was not attacking.
He was defending, his arms moving in a blur of parries and deflections.
Before him, Sun Wukong, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, was a blur of golden fur and murderous intent.
The Monkey King's eyes were milky white, his usual mischievous grin replaced by a flat, mechanical snarl.
