Zerthia: The God of Destruction

In the beginning, there was only darkness. From that void came something ancient, a being so old that even the gods feared him. Zerthia, the God of Destruction, was born not from creation, but from the end of things. He was the final breath of stars, the echo of collapsing worlds, and the devourer of life. His very existence was the embodiment of extinction, and now, after eons of slumber, he had awakened once more.

Legends say Zerthia could shape shift into many forms, but none more feared than the Beast—a towering, werewolf-like creature with black, sinewy fur, eyes like burning coals, and teeth sharp enough to shred stone. It was said that he wandered the forgotten places of the world, where the shadows were deepest and the light never dared to tread. And when he found his prey, he would stalk them, unseen, until it was too late.

His hunger was insatiable. Not for flesh, but for destruction. The more fear and chaos he caused, the more powerful he became.

For centuries, Zerthia’s power had been sealed, locked away by ancient deities who feared what he might do to their creation. But that was millennia ago, and the old gods had faded into myth. Humanity forgot about Zerthia, thinking him nothing more than a tale told to frighten children. But Zerthia remembered them.

In the small town of Raven’s Hollow, strange things had begun to happen. Livestock was found mutilated, entire fields of crops withered overnight, and the sky seemed darker than it should have been, even on moonless nights. The townspeople whispered about a shadow that moved in the forests, something too big to be a man, yet too quick to be a beast. Those who ventured too deep into the woods rarely returned, and those who did came back changed, speaking of glowing red eyes watching from the blackness.

A young man named Ethan lived near the forest edge. He had heard the stories, but like many, dismissed them as superstition. One night, as he was locking up his barn, he saw it—a shape, barely visible in the moonlight. It slithered through the trees, its form shifting and warping like liquid shadow. It was as tall as two men but hunched over, its body covered in black fur that rippled unnaturally. And its eyes… those burning, crimson eyes locked on him, freezing his blood.

Before he could move, the creature lunged, closing the distance in an instant. Ethan stumbled back, narrowly dodging the swipe of a clawed hand. The creature’s breath was hot, rancid, and its growl vibrated through his bones.

“Zerthia,” Ethan whispered in terror. The stories were true.

The beast grinned, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. But this was no simple animal—it was intelligent, calculating, and cunning. Ethan felt his body seize in place as Zerthia’s shadow seemed to expand, stretching out across the ground like ink spilled across a canvas. The darkness wrapped around his legs, pulling him toward the beast.

“I am no myth,” Zerthia hissed, his voice more like the crack of thunder than speech. “I am the end.”

Days turned into weeks, and the chaos in Raven’s Hollow grew worse. Zerthia was growing bolder, venturing closer to the town each night. The air was thick with dread, and the earth itself seemed to groan under the weight of his presence. Crops rotted in the fields, the rivers dried up, and the animals fled, sensing the end was near.

Zerthia was preparing for his final transformation—The Zerthian Overlord, the form he had not taken in thousands of years. Once he achieved it, nothing would be able to stop him. He would drain the life from the earth itself, feeding on its energy until nothing remained but a barren husk.

One stormy night, as the winds howled and the sky churned with ominous clouds, Zerthia stood on the hill overlooking the town. His body contorted, bones cracking and stretching as he began to shift. His wolfish features elongated, growing monstrous, his fur now bristling with raw energy. His eyes glowed like twin suns in the dark. The Zerthian Overlord was awakening.

The ground trembled violently beneath his feet, and with a roar that shook the heavens, Zerthia drove his claws into the earth. Dark tentacles erupted from the ground, spreading like veins through the soil, sucking the life from everything they touched. Trees withered, the grass turned to ash, and the town below began to collapse under the weight of Zerthia’s growing power.

The people of Raven’s Hollow screamed as their world crumbled around them, their life force being pulled from their bodies as Zerthia feasted. He was becoming a vortex of death, a black hole from which nothing could escape.

“Your world is mine,” Zerthia boomed, his voice echoing across the dying land. His final form was complete—massive, hulking, his very presence warping reality. The stars above seemed to dim as his power grew, the moon shrouded by an unnatural darkness that no light could pierce.

But this was just the beginning. Zerthia had no intention of stopping at one town. He would consume the entire world, one soul at a time, until nothing remained but an empty, silent void. He was the end of all things, the final darkness that even the gods could not escape.

And as the last scream of Raven’s Hollow faded into the night, Zerthia turned his gaze toward the horizon, toward the cities beyond, and smiled. The world had forgotten him, but soon, all would remember the name Zerthia, the God of Destruction.

For he was not just their end. He was the end.