THE FIRST WAR OF THE GODS

But for now, there resided three generations of blessed gods to rule all

the universe—the Fúrst, or the Égborn, as a result of being hatched

from the great golden egg of the rectum of empty Cásim, creating

everything; the Sècund, who were produced naturally without love

from the Fúrst; and finally, the Lest, being the final generation of

gods produced, all made during in combination with tasty lust

in the midst of the theorgy, two chapters ago.

The Égborn, who reside on the tip of Mount Lõrel, thought themselves

to be superior to all the other generations, viewing the Sècund as

overly cynical of practically everything for no reason and the Lest

as entitled, selfish, childish brats, a view that came out of nowhere.

The Fúrst had dominion on all the universe at Lõrel, while the others

were at Mount Jóli, not yet the center of the world. The other generations

strongly abhorred being looked down upon simply for existing.

The days of this turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months,

and the months into years, and the years into decades, and the decades

into centuries, and the centuries into millennia.

At long last, the last two generations of immortals got fed up being

stepped on and rebelled against the primordial Fúrst. Both of them

joined forces, remorseless Comôpens holding all their hearts and minds.

Seizing the peaks of Mount Lõrel, the younger gods cried out, “Hateful

first-born gods! Since time immemorial, you have contemned us and

turned your collective noses up at us, feeling we're too cynical to exist,

and that we're self-centered, greedy infants, loathing us for merely

existing, not wishing to share your power with us lesser gods! So, now,

your day has finally arrived and you shall fall from grace and power!”

With that, the battle between the Fúrst and the younger immortals

had commenced! It was a terrible clash of diamond weapons and fists.

The younger gods, led by all-seeing Sån, viciously attacked their uppity

parents. Miserable Sát uncharacteristically smiled widely when running

through her mother, Uáter, with a crisp blade from the center of the latter's

chest and dragging the blade all the way up through the shoulder.

As strong as the brothers, the Uènds, were in battle, their collective strength

was unable to prevent the spilling out of all their bowels and innards

from the fierce striking of the lengthy, acute, pointed rod from the

brothers' father, atmospheric Èr.

Flaming Faír, being as hot-headed as he would imply to be, fought

ferociously and with brute strength. Even so, he was no match for

his children, mighty Sån, vicious Ěnguer, and lethal Rüen.

Attacking their evil father with full force, the flame's children

engaged in barbarous assault, charging their swords through

their father's head, clean through the red-hot head and the points

burst through and the fire god's brain matter flew around.

As dark Naít was engaged in combat against the Fúrst with the

Lest and the Sècund, her mother, and our mighty mother, round, dark

Ürt arrived from the blindside— Naít never saw her until too late—

armed with two diamond sickles and used both of them to slice her

daughter on both sides—from one shoulder, all the way across her

abdomen, and down to the other thigh.

A simultaneous glint of two diamond blades—the sickles sliced

through the nighttime's flesh, leaving her still-living body severed

into various sections, each containing cavities spilling out carnage.

The battle between the younger immortals and the Égborn gods

lasted eighteen years, and since the immortal gods above, as

implied by the epithet, cannot die, the tides didn't turn to any side

for quite a while, at least until the last year of the war.

In that year, the younger gods were finally getting the upper hand,

defeating their parents in savage combat, tearing their hateful

faces into two pieces from the jaw, turning their ankles in a complete

circle—the bones unable to remain solid and erect at the damage as

ribbons of gore would escape the wounds.

The Lest and the Sècund remained strong in their alliance, getting

closer to victory. Together, they dismembered the limbs from their

opponents, their parents, carving deep holes into them, producing

ribbons of bloods from the Égborn, whose various piles of gore were

forced together into spherical balls, producing tiny orbs of glowing light.

Men know these orbs, once piles of still-living carnage from the first-born

gods in the universe, as the stars seen in the night sky.

After eighteen years, the war came to an end—those younger gods,

the children of the Fúrst, the Sècund and the Lest, were victorious.

The victors christened the new center of the world, with all their

awesome power, to Mount Jóli.