“Wait a moment, Miss Violet—what do you mean? Is our understanding of Daemon Beasts wrong?” His voice dropped like a pebble into a still pond, sending tight ripples.

A representative raised his hand like a flag in a storm, his brow knotted like twisted rope. Our knowledge, though fogged at the edges, was built on graves like stacked stones—people don’t move those lightly.

The Elders sparked the first changes like lanterns in a dark hall, yet respect cooled like dying embers; that’s why Violet began with footage of Aphelia felling a Daemon Beast, a blade of light through shadow.

“Right. Not just flawed—wrong at the root.” Her words struck like steel on bone.

She pointed at the black lines in the image, veins of pitch across the glass, and kept going.

“Until this phase of the war, we thought their shells and scales were iron mountains. Even sustained missile fire was blunt hammers, less useful than Aether—so we fielded Valkyries like storm-sent spears.”

Aether arms were the hardest knuckles we had, short of the last ash-dark resort. Nuclear fire was salt on soil, shrinking land like ice under a hot sun; otherwise some nation in the Americas, with a terrifying stockpile, would’ve lit the sky already.

“In truth, the monstrous shapes outside, whatever form or species they imitate, are just a small Eldritch cell collective in essence. The giant beast outside is armor—no, a weapon—borrowed, replaceable, and hard to spot, a mask hiding a knife.”

“If you want a term—like your Titan Program. Report it straight to your leaders in the shadows. You, over there—if you’re that impatient, step out and call.” Her interruption cut like a thin blade, and her tone carried frost.

The man’s face darkened like a stormcloud, but no one else lunged. Two powerhouses sat here like mountains outweighing the world; even if he wanted to swing, he couldn’t lift that weight.

“I’ll continue. Beyond the Eldritch cell collective wielding giants as weapons, there’s one crucial matter. Record it as it is and pass it up—too important for embellishment; keep the ink clean.”

She cut through the murmurs like a winter wind. “This concerns humanity’s survival. If you think you can carry that weight, put ink where it counts in your report.”

Pens stilled like birds folding wings. Faces sagged like bruised fruit—except Bilan, whose calm was a lake at dusk.

“I know you want to ask how these giant ‘weapons’ come to be. Early biology said they were mutations from ordinary species. But in recent years, you’ve seen it: the species that birthed each giant has vanished like a thread pulled from the tapestry.”

She pulled up the long rows of reports, pages like ledgers of rain and roots. It used to be a United Nations survey every thirty years; since Eldritch Gods and Daemon Beasts appeared, the tally comes yearly, a heartbeat on paper.

We live inside a vast ecosystem, a woven field of food chains like rivers of teeth. Every link matters; break one, and the currents go wild in ways no one can predict.

The researchers looked ahead like sentries on a ridge. Their eyes weren’t just on defeating Daemon Beasts and Eldritch Gods, but on the planet’s skin and breath; if the world after war is a bleached bone of a wasteland, then our “victory” is ash.

So, under a United Government, leaders saw the cliff edge. They poured resources like iron rivers and pulled back a report each year, a pulse of species and soil.

“Read the lines. The first creatures to vanish were blue whales, their songs cut like bells sinking under black water. Remember where we crushed our first Daemon Beast?”

The Pacific—an iron-gray field where the waves hammered like anvils.

Faces went pale like chalk dust. Elder-gifted tech kept the ocean’s changes from our kitchens and streets, but the loss of a species tied to Daemon Beasts isn’t just weather—it’s bones pulled from the world.

“Exactly. You’ve thought it through. Daemon Beasts exist to erase species.” The word fell like a stone.

Violet sighed, wind over graves and old names; heavy, even in her mouth.

“By watching and testing, we found a shared trait in the cells of those giant ‘weapons’: they gather massive Aether, and it’s the Aether of that species’ genetic song. When a Daemon Beast appears, it marks the loss of every creature of that kind.”

“If it were only biological meddling, a gene bank and time would be a hard path we’d accept. But after Lady Brynhildr cut down that Daemon Beast with Thunder like a lightning lash, we saw it—the vanished species’ genetic information had been split, part into the giant beast, part into the Eldritch cell collective.”

Violet’s face darkened, a spill of ink.

“That means defeating the Daemon Beast guarantees a missing portion of genetic information. The missing parts vanish as Aether—almost like the species’ concept erased from the planet’s beginning. Even holding the Eldritch cell collective, you’ve got nothing useful.”

Aphelia’s will thinned like mist; she had no heart to keep listening. Doubts flared like sparks from flint, but they couldn’t burn through Violet’s cold facts.

Aphelia turned to the window, her gaze lifting to a sky black as lacquer. Had humanity been losing from the first move, a game already set like stones on a Go board?

These Eldritch cell collectives—drop more of them, and the damage multiplies like cracks in glass. Even if we could fight the beasts, the chain of life snaps; after they’re all gone, the biosphere’s food chain shatters like a lifted ladder. Neither human hands nor nature’s slow hand could knit it back.

So this is the Eldritch Gods’ blade: aimed at annihilation from the start, with giant Daemon Beasts and raw devastation as theater masks over a scythe.

It doesn’t need to descend; it can float in space like a cold moon, waiting as we dutifully topple Daemon Beasts, erase species, topple again—the loop tightening like a noose. By the time we notice, our world’s ribs are already broken.

And once the truth lands, fear grows like frost creeping over windows. What if an Eldritch cell collective has slipped into a human body, learning our genetic map like a thief reading a diary?

Aether-bound strong ones don’t flinch; their information is braided with Aether, silver thread in blood. An Eldritch cell collective can’t unwind that braid easily.

But stir a society of ordinary lives, and panic ripples like locust wind—enough to break streets and sleep.

Aphelia let out a low laugh, a cold tea smile in the dark. An opponent like this does earn the name “Eldritch God.”

Right now, only Aphelia stands apart, a lamp in a long night.

If not for her Thunder obliterating that Daemon Beast, we wouldn’t have seen the pattern. A tremor rose from her soul, a string plucked in the quiet; as debate crackled like dry branches, a thin crescent smile touched her lips.

“Leave the Daemon Beasts in every land to me. Tell your leaders this: Elder Brynhildr has found a way.” Her voice struck like a bell, and the room held its breath.

The air tightened, like cloth pulled taut. Even Violet stared, shocked, but in Aphelia’s black eyes—night wells—there was no pretense, only calm, still water that steadied hearts.

“Lady Brynhildr, are you serious?” Bilan stood first, a pine in winter, gravity in her face like stone.

“Of course. And I ask every delegate to carry my will clearly: return the relics of ancient civilization to their original places—if you want to survive this war of extinction.” Her words were an edict carved in ice, shining under a hard moon.