CHAPTER 149: THE SHINTO REALM

The bones of Pangu’s realm lay scattered in silence. The giants of stone were rubble, rivers of molten gold cooled into black scars, mountains leveled into flat wastelands. The false crimson sky flickered weak above, broken where Zeus’s storm had burned through.

He stood at the center, lightning still licking across his shoulders, though dimmer now. The Primordial storm hummed in his blood, but he kept it chained. Around him, a few gods crawled out of the ruins—minor kami who had not dared strike. They trembled, their voices low with grief. Zeus did not end them. They were not his war, not yet. His eyes turned to the horizon.

His storm split the void once more.

–––

The Shinto Realm greeted him not with silence, but with blinding light.

He emerged into skies painted red and gold, a sun too close burning over seas of rolling clouds. Temples hung in the air like islands, their torii gates stretching from one to another, glowing with power. Rivers of starlight cut between them, carrying the prayers of mortals. This was no dead land like Pangu’s. It was alive, overflowing with divinity.

And waiting for him were gods.

Hundreds.

At their center stood Amaterasu, her radiance spilling brighter than day. Beside her loomed Izanagi and Izanami, creators of this world, their forms vast and heavy with power older than Olympus itself. Around them gathered the host: Susanoo gripping his storm blade, Tsukuyomi’s silver glow steady as a second sky, Raijin pounding his drums, Fūjin’s bag of winds howling like hurricanes. Ryūjin coiled above, a dragon god vast enough to wrap around mountains. Hachiman’s bow gleamed, Benzaiten’s music rippled through the air, Bishamonten’s armor burned with justice. Inari’s fox spirits snarled, Ebisu’s laughter turned sharp, Kagutsuchi’s fire seethed like a living star.

The sky bent with their presence. The air thickened with power.

Zeus stood alone before them.

–––

Raijin struck first. His drums thundered, each beat birthing bolts that split the heavens. Clouds tore open, storms roared, the skies themselves turning against Zeus.

But he was the storm. His body flared, arcs brighter, sharper, heavier. He met Raijin’s thunder with his own, his lightning swallowing the drums’ echoes, turning them into ash in the air.

Susanoo leapt forward, his blade cleaving down in a storm surge. The strike split the ground, a wave of sea and wind smashing against Zeus’s chest. He slid back, sparks burning the soil, then roared and drove his fist forward. Lightning crashed into the wave, splitting it apart, detonating the sea into steam. Susanoo staggered, his blade shuddering.

Amaterasu’s light cut next. A sun flared above her palm, brighter than Di Jun’s, radiant with divine fire that sought to burn shadows, storms, even gods. She hurled it, and the air itself screamed.

Zeus raised both hands. His storm coiled, then unleashed in one vast strike. The sun split in two, thunder detonating through its heart. Fire and lightning rained together, scorching the temples, splitting rivers of starlight into sparks.

Izanagi moved without sound. His hand lifted, and creation bent. The ground rippled, the sky folded, Zeus’s storm dimmed under weight older than Olympus. Izanami followed, her breath spilling death, the winds of endings crawling across the battlefield. Together, they pressed, one shaping, one unraveling.

Zeus’s chest tightened. The storm fought, but even it trembled against their combined weight. His body flared, his veins searing. He let go—lightning erupted in rivers, abyss shadowed his steps, Surtr’s fire roared in his fists. He tore free, the blast cracking Izanagi’s bindings, scattering Izanami’s death winds into mist.

The other gods surged.

Hachiman’s arrows rained, each one carrying a warrior’s oath. Zeus blurred, each bolt of lightning a step, scattering the arrows before they touched him. Tsukuyomi’s moonlight carved down, silver arcs bending his path. He raised his arm, sparks catching the blade of light, shattering it into glittering dust.

Fūjin’s winds howled, tearing mountains into the sky, ripping at Zeus’s storm. He braced, fists clenched, lightning roots grounding him against the gale. He stepped forward through it, each step bending the storm tighter, sharper, until it punched through Fūjin’s wind, cracking the bag wide open.

Ryūjin descended, the ocean itself with him. His body coiled around Zeus, jaws snapping with the fury of a thousand storms at sea. Zeus’s fists blazed, thunder crashing into scales harder than any shield. Sparks detonated, dragon blood spilling into the sky like falling stars. The beast roared but tightened further, coils crushing. Zeus let his storm burst outward. The dragon screamed, coils tearing, lightning burning through its hide until it fell thrashing into the clouds below.

Still, the host pressed. Kagutsuchi’s fire fell like meteors. Bishamonten’s blade struck with divine justice. Benzaiten’s music twisted the air into blades. Inari’s fox spirits snapped at his heels.

Everywhere he turned, another god.

Every strike he landed, another came.

Even his storm strained.

–––

Zeus knew he could not break them all here. Not in one clash. Not without burning Olympus itself into ash.

His storm bent, not outward, but inward. A spark crawled down his arm, weaving into the void, carrying with it a name. Across realms, across the weave of war, it reached.

Odin.

A message, sharp and final: Come.

–––

The fight raged still.

Zeus roared, his storm cracking open the false heavens. He drove his fists into Raijin’s drums, splitting them apart. He hurled Susanoo into a shattered shrine, sparks tearing through his blade. He clashed with Amaterasu again, lightning burning against her fire, each collision shattering the sky into fragments.

But Izanagi and Izanami remained. Their presence loomed heavier than all the others, shaping, unraveling, pressing. Their eyes locked on him, calm and unyielding.

The Shinto Realm shook.

The clouds split.

And still, Zeus stood.

Waiting.

Stalling.

His storm burning not just to survive, but to hold the field until the All-Father’s spear cut the skies beside him.

–––

The gods of Japan had gathered. The Primordials had moved. Olympus had struck.

A/N

Thanks for reading my work.