Sienna sat upon her throne of eternal tornt, the fused skeletons beneath her writhing and grinding in perpetual agony. Vertebrae twisted against one another with wet bone-on-bone screeches. Ribs flexed like dying lungs while skulls embedded in the structure clacked and gnashed, trying to tear themselves free, only to be violently stitched back by black nether threads.
She felt them four ancient broken presences stirred in the black lakes far below.
Nether portals tore open beneath the throne like fresh self-inflicted wounds — jagged rips bleeding thick steaming ropes of liquid darkness and sickly green death energy into the void.
From the first portal rose the Abyssal Drake.
Its colossal skull shattered the surface with a sickening crunch, jaw splitting violently wider than its own skull should allow, bone and sinew grinding before snapping back into a crooked painful alignnt.
One wing was a shredded ruin of exposed bone and rotting mbrane, constantly dripping greenish ichor. The other flickered in and out of existence, sending fresh spasms of agony through the massive body every ti it failed to solidify.
Scales ford and instantly lted into raw weeping muscle that hissed and smoked.
Hundreds of eyes blood across its skull like bursting tumours, ruptured, collapsed — hollow craters filling with violet worms gnawing on exposed nerve.
It dragged its broken trembling bulk forward and pressed its ruined snout to the tar at the foot of the throne, while its body was shaking with unrelenting pain from the last battle of breaking the do.
From the second portal ca the Serpent General.
Its long body was a nightmarish shattered joints and exposed bone, limbs sprouted, withered, exploded outward in fresh sprays of black blood and pus. Large sections of its length were still raw charred at from the do’s holy fire — flesh refusing to heal, splitting open with wet tearing sounds.
Rotating mouths full of teeth gnashed uselessly at its own wounds.
It coiled at the base of the throne, multiple heads bowed low, each one whimpering in different broken frequencies.
From the third portal flickered the Winged General.
Its body glitched violently between forms, one half angelic and beautiful, the other a mass of exposed insectoid horror.
Massive holes gaped in its torso where reality had tried to erase it, violet worms writhing openly in the cavities, chewing on raw nerves. Its shifting wings shed feathers of shadow that turned into screaming mouths on the ground.
Every flicker sent fresh bolts of white-hot agony through its fra. It hovered unsteadily and bowed, wings stuttering in broken rhythm.
From the fourth portal dragged the Chira General.
Its body was pure tornt — multiple heads snapping and tearing at one another, torsos splitting open into vertical maws that vomited greenish bile, limbs constantly mutating into drills and battering rams tipped with weeping infant faces.
Entire sections of it were still missing or half-lted, bones jutting through flesh that refused to seal.
Every movent tore new wounds. It crawled forward on its chaotic mass of limbs and slamd its collective heads against the ground in agonized submission.
All four generals — Drake, Serpent, Winged, Chira, leaders of the many — bowed beneath their goddess in excruciating pain.
Sienna looked down at them.
A raw genuine flash of pain twisted across her small face.
Her violet tightened with visible sorrow as she witnessed the horrific damage they had sustained for her sake — the lted scales, the gaping holes, the constant self-destruction of their unfinished forms.
Fresh black blood poured faster from her eyes, mixing with silent tears that burned like acid down her cheeks.
These four had carried her invasion of the upper world on their backs to ensure she succeeded in her mission.
These four had chewed through a Lesser God Witch’s do with their teeth and bodies.
These four had returned to her in pieces, and the pieces had been theirs to give, and the giving had been for her, and she had received the gift in the only currency a Nether Goddess could offer — eternal continuance of their incomplete forms inside the realm she had built around them.
She closed her eyes.
The pain did not fade.
It sharpened and beca purpose.
She rose from the screaming throne.
The fused skeletons howled in protest, ribs cracking, spines twisting violently as her weight left them.
She stepped down barefoot onto the black tar, each footprint leaving glowing violet scars that smoked and hissed.
She walked straight to the Abyssal Drake.
She placed one small trembling hand on the brutalized stump where its second wing should have been.
The exposed bone was raw and splintered, still leaking thick greenish pus. With a deep pained breath, she unleashed her power.
Nether energy and death energy erupted from her palm in violent writhing black-and-green lightning.
The Drake scread — a soul-shattering roar that shook the entire realm.
Flesh bubbled violently from the stump in raw weeping tumors. Bones cracked and elongated with audible pops and crunches. A new wing began to form — skeletal at first, then layered with fresh glistening mbrane that imdiately started rotting and tearing apart again in endless agonizing cycles.
The Drake thrashed wildly beneath her, claws gouging deep trenches into the tar, jaw splitting open in a silent scream of pure tornt as the new wing was forced into existence.
It was not healing.
It was torture given form.
When the wing finally settled — crooked, unstable, and in constant pain — Sienna swung herself onto the Drake’s massive neck. Her small fra looked fragile against its colossal shuddering bulk, yet her presence alone commanded absolute obedience.
She opened her tear-streaked eyes.
"Fly," she commanded, voice layered with a thousand unfinished agonised throats.
The Abyssal Drake roared — a sound of pure suffering and loyalty — and launched upward with explosive force.
Its newly ford wing beat in ragged painful strokes, sending fresh sprays of ichor into the void.
The other three generals followed without hesitation, each movent a fresh act of devotion wrapped in tornt.
The Serpent General slithered after them across the black lakes, body undulating in broken waves, limbs tearing and regrowing with every motion, leaving trails of blood and pus behind.
The Chira General galloped on its chaotic mass of limbs, heads screaming and fighting each other, extra maws opening to vomit bile as it bounded forward in agony.
The Winged General rose last, flickering and glitching violently, flying protectively behind the Drake — its broken wings beating with desperate painful determination.
Sienna rode atop the Drake’s neck, one hand gently resting on its shifting agonized scales. Black blood continued to pour from her eyes as she endured the pain of her children alongside them.
Behind her, the rest of the Unfinished horde stirred in the lakes — millions of incomplete horrors lifting their heads in reverence as their goddess and her generals took to the air.
The Soul Realm trembled with their passage, the wet heartbeat growing louder, more desperate, more alive.
Heading to where was sothing for her, her realm and him.
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