The Omnipotent System

The gods barely had a moment to process the awe of Adams's creation before a deep, unsettling chill swept through the air. Even the vibrant, pulsing energy of this new world seemed to dim slightly, as if recoiling from something unseen. The gods exchanged wary glances. They all felt it—a presence so ancient and vast that even their divine senses struggled to comprehend it.

Adams stood unfazed, his expression calm. His gaze turned upward, where the sky seemed to ripple and twist unnaturally. He didn't need to explain. He already knew what was coming.

"The Primordial Oblivion," Adams said, his voice even but laced with authority.

The gods stiffened at the name. Even Zeus, who rarely showed fear, paled slightly.

Adams continued, his tone almost conversational. "One of the few true aspects of existence. It was there before the first light, before time, space, or life itself. Oblivion isn't evil or good—it simply is. Its purpose is straightforward: to unmake. To return everything to the nothingness from which it came."

The sky above tore open, revealing a vast, swirling void. It wasn't just darkness—it was something deeper, more absolute, a gaping absence that seemed to pull at the edges of reality itself. Shapes moved within it, shifting and changing, never fully solid. It was impossible to tell if Oblivion had a form or if it was simply a concept made manifest.

"The universe," Adams continued, "is a balance of creation and destruction. Light and dark. Life and death. Oblivion is the purest form of destruction. It doesn't discriminate. Gods, mortals, realms—it erases them all without a trace."

Loki, for once, looked uneasy. "And you brought us here? To this place? To face that?"

Adams smirked faintly but didn't answer right away. Instead, he raised a hand, and the swirling skies above seemed to halt, frozen in time. Oblivion's presence remained, but it no longer advanced.

"I didn't bring you here to face it," Adams said, his voice calm. "I brought you here to watch."

"Watch?" Amaterasu asked, her usual composure cracking slightly.

Adams turned to the gathered gods, his expression sharp. "You called on me because you couldn't handle this. And you're right—you can't. None of you can. Not together, not with all your armies, not with your pantheons combined. Oblivion is beyond anything you've ever faced."

Ra narrowed his glowing eyes. "And yet you claim you can stop it?"

Adams chuckled softly, a sound that somehow seemed to carry weight. "I don't claim anything, Ra. I'm telling you a fact. Oblivion exists because the universe needs it to. But I exist because I choose to. And that's the difference."

The gods stared at him, unsure whether to be awed or alarmed.

Adams turned his attention back to the swirling void. "Oblivion isn't a villain. It doesn't have malice or intent. It's a force of nature, a necessary part of existence. But that doesn't mean I'll let it run wild. This universe is mine now, and I decide what stays and what goes."

With a casual motion, Adams raised his hand. The shimmering air around him solidified, forming a blade of pure energy—no, not energy, something more fundamental. Something that seemed to hum with the very essence of existence itself.

"You asked what I would do after Oblivion," Adams said, glancing over his shoulder at the gods. "The answer is simple. I'll do what I always do—whatever I want."
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Without another word, he stepped forward, his blade slicing effortlessly through the air. The tear in the sky trembled, as if sensing what was coming.

The gods could only watch as Adams moved toward the heart of Oblivion. To them, it felt like watching someone walk into a storm that could swallow the world. But Adams didn't falter. He didn't hesitate.

Because he knew—knew everything. And what he knew most of all was that Oblivion, as vast and ancient as it was, could be destroyed. And he was the only one who could do it.

Adams stood at the edge of Oblivion's presence, the massive void swirling and shifting like a living storm. It wasn't just a black hole; it was an absence of everything—light, sound, thought. Even the gods, who could command entire realms, felt their power waver in its presence.

Oblivion moved, or at least it seemed to. The formless void rippled, tendrils of nothingness reaching out like smoke, curling and twisting toward Adams. It wasn't an attack in the traditional sense. It was simply unmaking, dissolving everything it touched.

Adams tilted his head, watching the tendrils approach. "You always start with the flashy stuff," he muttered, almost bored.

The gods held their breath as the tendrils reached him. For a moment, it seemed like Oblivion would erase him, just as it had countless other things in existence. But then, the tendrils stopped. They didn't break or burn—they just… froze.

Adams raised his hand, the blade of existence still in his grip. He swung it lazily, slicing through the tendrils. Where his blade passed, Oblivion recoiled, as if the very concept of destruction was being rejected.

"You're going to have to try harder," Adams said, his tone light but cutting.

Oblivion didn't react—how could it? It wasn't a being with thoughts or emotions. But the void pulsed, and the entire realm around them shifted. The ground beneath Adams's feet cracked, the sky shattered like glass, and the air itself seemed to implode.

The gods, watching from a safe distance, felt the sheer force of it. Even in their divine forms, they struggled to stay upright. Zeus clenched his fists, his voice low. "This… this isn't a fight. It's something else entirely."

Adams stood unaffected as the world around him crumbled. With a flick of his wrist, he stabbed his blade into the ground. A wave of energy spread out in all directions, stabilizing the chaos. The cracks healed, the sky mended, and the void rippled with what almost seemed like frustration.

"Alright," Adams said, stepping forward. "My turn."

He raised his free hand, and the entire void seemed to tremble. Power surged from him, not like a blast or a beam, but something deeper. It was as if he was rewriting the rules of reality itself. The tendrils of Oblivion, once so dominant, began to break apart, dissolving into nothing.

Adams didn't stop there. With each step he took, the void shrank. He wasn't just pushing it back—he was erasing it, piece by piece.

Oblivion reacted, its form shifting wildly. From the darkness, massive shapes emerged—twisted, incomprehensible forms that defied logic. They lashed out, trying to overwhelm Adams.

But Adams didn't falter. He moved through them like they weren't even there, his blade cutting through the air. Each swing shattered the forms, scattering them into fragments that couldn't reassemble.

The gods could only watch in stunned silence. Even Loki, usually full of quips, was speechless.

Adams finally stopped at the heart of the void, where Oblivion's presence was strongest. He stood there for a moment, looking up at the swirling nothingness. "This is it, huh? All that destruction, all that unmaking, and this is what you've got?"

He raised his blade one last time. The energy around him surged, brighter and more powerful than anything the gods had ever seen. It wasn't just light—it was pure creation, the opposite of everything Oblivion stood for.

With a single, decisive swing, Adams brought the blade down. The void screamed—not a sound, but a feeling, a vibration that echoed through the very fabric of existence. And then, just like that, it was gone.

The sky cleared. The ground steadied. The gods felt their power return, stronger than ever, as if the universe itself was breathing a sigh of relief.

Adams stood alone in the silence, his blade vanishing from his hand. He turned back to the gods, a faint smirk on his face. "See? Told you I had it handled."

No one responded. What could they say? They had just witnessed the impossible.

"But it's not over."