The Cradle of Godslayers

Clay at the End of Spacetime

Embers of the Chronoforge floated on the bioluminescent sea like 30,000 unextinguished stars. Alys knelt atop the glowing waves, cradling the infant Kaine—now suckling dark matter milk. His pupils swirled with twelve universes' star charts, each blink triggering microdimensional collapses and rebirths.

Cinder's white-haired specter dissolved, his mechanical arm's final component plunging into the sea. Ripples revealed the First Lab: his younger self linking Alys' genetic chains to the Chronoforge twenty-three millennia ago.

"Time to wake." The specter's voice crackled with quantum static. "The true battle isn't here."

The infant wailed, sonic waves shattering spacetime mirrors frozen in the sea. Alys saw her reflection: herself strapped to a genetic altar 30,000 years prior, young Cinder's face contorted as Church guards neared discovering the anti-code chip hidden in his sleeve.

Birthday of the Godslayer

Dark matter hurled them through temporal barriers. Alys' vines crystallized in the chronostream, roots piercing historical nodes. When her feet touched the First Lab's alloy floor, she heard her past self screaming—scalpels splitting vertebrae, nanite drills boring into marrow.

Infant Kaine hovered midair, nebula-pupils locking onto the lab's chronosand conduits. His cry shifted to primordial frequencies, shattering bishops' mind-control halos. Cinder slammed the anti-code chip into the console—amber chronosand boiled, forming counterclockwise vortices in the pipes.

"History correction rate: 89%..." Alarm lights bled crimson. Infinite timelines fractured: one where Cinder erased experimental data, another where Alys broke free, and darkest of all—a branch where the Pope's mechanical finger hovered over a genetic bomb's detonator.

Quantum Killzone

Church chrono-troops poured from rifts. Their mechs plated with Alys' combat data across ages, chainsaws etched with Kaine's sigils. The first assault tore the lab's shields. Chronosand conduits ruptured, spewing amber torrents.

Alys hurled infant Kaine toward the core. Falling, he rapidly aged—silver sand sculpting an eighteen-year-old body, his back retaining nebula patterns from infancy. When his hand touched boiling chronosand, the lab quantum-shifted: walls became data waterfalls, surgical tables screaming equation-glyphs.

"This is the truth you fear!" Adult Kaine ripped open his chest. Dark matter heartbeats unleashed creation pulses. All mech-plated combat data reversed—Alys' erased childhood memories, overwritten emotions, and rewritten faith becoming psychic scalpels stabbing Church forces.

Anti-God Lullaby

Cinder's remains fulfilled their purpose. His mechanical arm jammed into the console, injecting lifelong anti-codes into chronosand's source. The amber liquid clarified into a mirror, reflecting all parallel universes' embryo pods—clones shedding Godslayer codes in amniotic rebirth.

Alys' vines pierced spacetime, scattering purified chronosand across history. She saw five-year-old herself chasing fireflies, fifteen-year-old Alys modifying chainsaws into gardening shears, twenty-year-old Alys smiling at newborn Kaine. As the last chronosand droplet vanished, the First Lab self-destructed.

The Pope's mechanized form emerged from temporal storms, spine extruding twelve chronosand conduits—each feeding terminal scenes from dark universes. But Kaine's awakened nebula sigils glowed. He grasped Alys' crystallized vines—

No longer weapons, but a galaxy-strung harp.

Stellar Epoch

The harp's vibration synced 30,000 universes' chronosand. The Pope's conduits exploded one by one, dark futures overwritten: nuclear winters blooming neon flora, mechanical wastelands sprouting clay monuments, even Oasis of Ending's tombstones growing singing vines.

On the First Lab's ruins, the last alloy plate dissolved. Alys walked barefoot onto a new universe's grasslands, cradling Kaine—now regressed to single-cell form. Distant kiln chimes rang as Cinder's specter taught bioluminescent children to mold clay dolls.

When the first undesigned raindrop fell, Kaine's cell divided. No silver sand. No chainsaws. Only primal life pulsing—dancing through grass, swimming in raindrops, birthing infinite possibilities in wet clay.