My Charity System made me too OP

The serene emerald skies of the Elf Continent shimmered with magic, reflecting the vast magical barrier that covered the great expanse like a living dome. Towering trees stretched high into the heavens, some so ancient their roots had burrowed through mountains. Glittering rivers ran like veins of light, carrying potent mana infused by the natural harmony of the continent.

Elves—tall, elegant, proud—stood watch from silver towers that pierced clouds. Their pointed ears twitched as an unnatural ripple tore across the skies.

Something was coming.

No... someone.

A dark star descended from the heavens, its wake leaving violet tears across the skies. Mana trembled. Birds cried. Trees recoiled. The once-peaceful winds howled in warning.

Shubh-Niggurath had arrived.

She floated above the capital of the Elf Continent—Sol'Anar, the Golden Crown of Elvenkind. Her mass of shadowy tendrils waved lazily, her twisted halo pulsing with otherworldly hunger. Beneath her, mana barriers surged to life as alarms rang across the continent.

The High Council of Elves, led by the Prideful Elf Emperor—Valtherion El'Serin, stood upon the highest balcony of the Crystal Spire, their faces grim.

"An abomination dares tread our sacred lands…" Valtherion's voice echoed like frost across the air. "Let her be made an example of."

With a raise of his hand, thousands of elven war-magi took to the skies, glyphs circling their arms. Elemental spirits danced in fury. Bows carved from world trees were drawn. The sky filled with an army of lights.

But Shubh only laughed—an eldritch, otherworldly sound that made mana itself twist in discomfort.

"So many stars to pluck... So many proud little flames to snuff out."

With one gesture, black gates of madness opened behind her. From them poured corrupted horrors—tentacled beasts, shrieking banshees of the void, and faceless knights cloaked in screams. The skies cracked with the clash of purity and corruption.

The Battle of Sol'Anar began.

Elven arrows fell like comets. Spells tore the air with celestial brilliance. Spirits wept in fury as Shubh's minions consumed them. The elves fought with valor, grace, and fury—but they faced a being born of forgotten fears and eternal madness.

Shubh danced among the chaos, her body warping in impossible angles. She devoured time, slashed through laws of physics, and unleashed screams that shattered the will of entire battalions.

And yet...

Valtherion stood tall.

His golden armor glowed with ancient light, woven from the threads of daybreak itself. Wings of solar flame burst from his back as he took to the sky.

"You will go no further, filth of the abyss!" he roared.

The two clashed.

Light against void. Order against chaos. A symphony of explosions rocked the continent. Trees hundreds of feet tall were reduced to ash. Mountains crumbled. Rivers boiled.

Valtherion summoned the Spear of Solaris, forged from the heart of a sun. With it, he pierced through Shubh's form again and again, his power righteous and terrifying.

But Shubh... she laughed with every wound.

"Your light is beautiful," she whispered. "Let me show you my darkness."

She opened her true form.

A great eye bloomed across the heavens, surrounded by infinite maws. The skies wept ink. The stars themselves blinked out. Even the gods watching in silence turned their gaze.

Valtherion struck with all his might—his pride, his people, his legacy in a single blow.

Shubh caught the spear with her bare hand... and crushed it.

"You have ruled too long," she said, voice echoing through every elf's soul. "Bow to the Origin. Or be consumed."

Valtherion fell.

Not by death. But by despair.

On his knees, his crown shattered, his eyes hollow.

Shubh did not kill him. She left him broken, his pride devoured.

And she took his throne—not for herself, but for her Lord.

Leaving behind the fractured beauty of the Elven lands, Shubh soared across the skies like a streak of shadow laced in violet flame. Her wings sliced through clouds as the world beneath her shifted—lush forests gave way to jagged cliffs, green faded to ashen gray, and the air grew hotter, heavier, and tinged with smoke.

She had arrived at the Dwarf Continent—Khaz'Vural, a harsh and magnificent land forged in fire and steel.

The continent itself was a colossal mountain range of active volcanoes, rumbling furnaces, and subterranean cities carved deep into the bones of the earth. Molten rivers coursed through obsidian canyons. Steam vents hissed warnings to the careless. Every peak bore scars of craftsmanship—runes, towers, and great anvils that glowed with the eternal flame of Dwarven pride.

And at the heart of this fiery domain, atop the most furious volcano—Mount Vurandur, the World-Splitter—sat the Dwarf King.

His fortress wasn't made of stone. It was hammered from star-metal, laced with divine fire, and suspended over lava by ancient machinery older than kingdoms. The air shimmered with heat, and the mountain rumbled as if honoring the king who dared to rule from its throat.

As Shubh descended, her presence stirred the air into chaotic spirals. Magma bubbled and danced. Golems stirred. Cannons rotated to lock onto her.

But none fired.

The Dwarves knew better.

Their king—Thrain Ironjaw, a mountain of a dwarf with a beard braided with steel chains and eyes like smoldering coals—stood upon his throne's platform, arms crossed, great war-hammer in hand. He looked every bit the warrior-king, born of fire and shaped by anvil.

Yet, when he saw Shubh-Niggurath descend in her grotesque elegance, her wings casting a shadow over the mountain, his expression shifted from defiance to something unexpected.

Relief.

He sighed. Loudly.

"Finally," he muttered, setting his hammer down and rubbing his sore back. "Yer here to take the damn throne, aye?"

Shubh blinked. "...Excuse me?"

Thrain turned, walked back to his throne, and with a grunt, tossed the crown at her feet like a chunk of old iron.

"There. All yers. No need for theatrics, lass."

Shubh tilted her head, mildly disappointed. "You… don't wish to fight? Not even resist?"

Thrain waved her off with a snort. "Lass, I'm a blacksmith. Always have been. All I ever wanted was to forge the greatest weapon the world's ever seen, not sit on a damn throne tryin' to settle arguments between stubborn clans, bratty nobles, and lava-farmers complainin' about spirit taxes."

He slumped into a stone chair near the throne and continued, "I didn't even want to be king. It was a damn crafting competition, not a coronation. Made a legendary axe, next thing I know—'Oh Thrain, ye bested all the other smiths! Ye're the new King o' Fire and Forge!' Bah!"

He gestured dramatically. "Do ye know how many papers I've had to sign? Do ye know how many meetings I've been dragged into about pickaxe quotas?"

Shubh stared at him, tendrils twitching.

"…No eldritch corruption… no resistance… not even a speech?"

"Speech?" Thrain scoffed. "Ye want a speech? Here's a speech: I abdicate. I'm goin' back to my forge. Been 70 years since I crafted aught with my own hands. If yer takin' the throne for your 'Origin Lord' or whatnot, go right ahead."

He stood, grabbed his hammer, and strolled toward the massive forge at the back of the volcano, whistling.

"Thank the forge-gods," he muttered, "I can finally finish me dragonbone war-flute."

Shubh blinked again, then bent down, lifted the crown in one of her many hands, and gently placed it atop a floating obsidian pedestal infused with her master's will.

The throne lit with dark fire. Her presence was now bound to this land.

The Dwarf King had willingly submitted.

She paused, considering the absurd ease of her conquest, before mumbling:

"…I like him."

"What a cute little fella" She hummed as once again opening her void wings she soared into skies.

After her swift and almost anticlimactic success in the Dwarf Continent, Shubh took to the skies once more, her wings spreading like an ominous veil over the lands she passed. Her next destination loomed in the eastern winds: Aestravale, the Fairy Continent—a realm known not for brute force, but for dangerous enchantments, illusionary beauty, and ancient nature-bound magic.

Unlike the volcanic rage of Khaz'Vural, Aestravale was a land of overwhelming splendor. Towering trees with crystal blossoms shimmered in the wind. Rivers sang with music, and mountains floated mid-air like drifting petals. The very air was laced with intoxicating mana, thick with glamour and deception.

It was heaven—on the surface.

But Shubh wasn't fooled.

This was a battlefield painted in pastel.

As she soared toward the grand capital Illyr'Serin, she saw floating temples, winged guardians, and massive trees that doubled as both homes and arcane cannons. The moment she crossed the barrier of the capital, reality bent. The skies split into mirrored reflections. The ground vanished beneath illusions of stars, and a grand melody echoed like a siren's call.

"Welcome, Emissary of Madness," a voice called out.

Descending slowly from a crescent-moon-shaped throne of silk and glass came the Fairy King—or so Shubh assumed.

They looked divine.

Long silver hair flowed like liquid moonlight, and their skin was smooth as polished jade. Their robe was a cascade of stars, and their wings sparkled in radiant hues that defied logic. Their beauty was unparalleled—an almost genderless perfection that could easily be mistaken for the most divine of goddesses… if not for the cold, calculating eyes beneath that gentle smile.

Shubh landed, claws cracking the golden marble path.