The cosmic harvesting machine hummed with malevolent purpose, its incomprehensible geometries carving reality into digestible fragments. Streams of existence—pain, joy, hope, despair—flowed like luminous blood through ethereal conduits, feeding the entity that had orchestrated their cosmic dance of suffering.
Reed watched in horror as the battlefield began to dissolve, warriors and philosophers alike becoming mere data points in an unfathomable equation. The very air tasted of entropy, metallic and bitter, while space-time folded inward like origami made of screaming light.
"No." Lyralei's voice cut through the apocalyptic symphony like a blade forged from pure intention. "This ends here."
She stood apart from the chaos, her form flickering between dimensions—woman, concept, force of nature. The aspect of the Lover burned within her eyes, not the soft affection of mortal hearts, but the primal drive that bound quarks to atoms, planets to stars, souls to eternity.
