The rhythmic swish of the mop echoed through the empty tavern like the ghost of better days.
The Void Emperor—once the dread sovereign of the infinite abyss, architect of apocalypses, and general terror of the multiverse—pushed the frayed mop across the floorboards with the weary resignation of a being who had fallen so far that even rock bottom had begun to look down on him.
"I shaped realities," he muttered to no one in particular, his voice the dry rasp of a forgotten tomb. "I forged dimensions from the raw stuff of chaos. I whispered and civilizations trembled."
He paused to scrape a particularly stubborn patch of dried mead from the wood.
"Now I remove sticky beverages."
The mop bucket sloshed as he dunked the head back in, the water murky with the accumulated sins of a hundred drunken nights. He wrung it out with more force than strictly necessary, the tendons in his hands standing out like ancient roots.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
When he'd agreed to serve as the tavern's janitor—under extreme duress and the Fox Spirit's threat to turn his remaining throne fragments into chamber pots—he'd assumed it would be temporary. A brief humiliation before his inevitable, dramatic return to power.
That had been six months ago.
Now his crown—what remained of it—hung on a rusty nail behind the bar, serving as a coat rack. His once-imperious robes had been replaced with an apron that read "Kiss the Cook (If You Dare)" in aggressively cheerful embroidery. And his grand plans for multiversal domination had been reduced to a nightly battle against spilled ale and bar nuts ground into the floor.
"The mighty have fallen indeed," he grumbled, sloshing the mop toward a suspicious stain that might have been blood, wine, or possibly both.
Then the pain hit.
It started as a tingle in his fingers—unpleasant but ignorable. Then it raced up his arms like wildfire, burning through his veins with the particular agony only holy water could inflict on something like him. He dropped the mop with a hiss that would have done a feral cat proud, shaking his hands as if he could fling the pain away.
From the rafters came the unmistakable sound of stifled laughter.
The Void Emperor's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing at the flash of russet fur and grinning teeth peeking over the edge of the beams.
"You," he snarled.
The Fox Spirit dropped lightly to the floor, her tails swishing with barely contained glee. "Me," she agreed cheerfully, holding up the now-empty vial of holy water. "Just thought the floors could use a little... divine intervention."
The Void Emperor flexed his still-smoking fingers. "I will end you."
"You could," the Fox Spirit allowed, skipping just out of reach. "Or you could admit that was funny."
They stood there for a long moment, locked in a battle of wills older than the tavern itself.
Then—
The Void Emperor snatched up the mop and flung the holy-water-soaked head at her like a javelin.
The Fox Spirit yelped, darting aside with a laugh as the mop splattered against the wall behind her. "Temper, temper, your moppiness!"
With that, she vanished in a swirl of golden sparks, leaving only her laughter hanging in the air like the aftershock of a bad decision.
The Void Emperor glared at the empty space where she'd been. Then at the ruined mop. Then at the bucket.
It was then that he noticed it.
The water in the bucket had stilled to an unnatural mirror-smoothness, despite the violence of the recent exchange. And in its depths—
Shadows moved.
Not the ordinary play of light and dark, but something deeper. Something older.
He leaned closer, despite himself.
The water showed no reflection of his face. Instead, it swirled with half-formed shapes—a crumbling temple here, a broken crown there. And voices—whispers really—just on the edge of hearing.
"...fading..."
"...remember us..."
"...the chains are broken but the scars remain..."
The Void Emperor recoiled as if burned.
The water splashed, the visions dissipating instantly. But the damage was done.
He knew those voices.
The Pantheon.
Or what remained of them.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the now-ordinary bucket with an expression caught between hunger and horror.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he picked it up.
Dumped it out.
And went to fetch fresh water.
But as he pushed the mop across the floor once more, his movements were slower. More measured.
And his muttering had taken on a new, more thoughtful tone.
"Interesting."
END OF CHAPTER 109