God of Deceit

The air shimmered and crackled with unholy energy as Ninkalammu, Ereshkigaladu, and Utukhulu materialized on the shores of the island.

Where their feet touched the earth, vegetation withered and died, leaving behind a trail of decay that spread outward like a virulent infection.

Ninkalammu's eyes, blazing with inner fire, swept across the landscape.

Her brow furrowed in confusion as she took in the scene before her. "What madness is this?" she hissed, her voice a symphony of broken harmonies.

Where once stood a grand mansion, hub of the Culling Games and nexus of their infernal machinations, now lay only a vast expanse of ash and cinders.

The very air seemed heavy with the lingering scent of destruction and despair.

Ereshkigaladu, his lithe form practically vibrating with manic energy, danced across the desolate ground. "Oh my, oh my!" he cackled, his mask doing little to muffle the glee in his voice. "Someone's been having fun without us! How delightfully naughty!"

Utukhulu's towering form cast an elongated shadow across the ruined landscape.

Her serene expression belied the malice in her eyes as she surveyed the destruction. "This is... unexpected," she murmured, her soft voice carrying an undercurrent of bone-chilling dread. "The game board has been cleared, it seems.

But by whose hand?"

Ninkalammu strode forward, her every movement a study in terrible grace.

She knelt amidst the ashes, scooping up a handful of the dark, gritty mixture.

Without hesitation, she began to smear it across her face, the act more ritual than vanity.

As the cinders touched her skin, Ninkalammu's eyes rolled back in her head, her entire body going rigid.

Ereshkigaladu and Utukhulu watched in fascinated silence as their queen communed with the very essence of destruction that permeated this place.

Moments stretched into minutes, the only sound the whisper of ash carried on the wind. Then, with a gasp that seemed to shake the very foundations of reality, Ninkalammu's eyes snapped open.

Where once burned flames of amber, now blazed twin infernos of deepest crimson - a gaze that promised death to any mortal foolish enough to meet it.

"I have seen it," she breathed, her voice resonating with eldritch power. "The treachery, the slaughter, the theft of souls.

Our little game has spiraled far beyond our control, my dears."

Ereshkigaladu tilted his head, curiosity evident in every line of his body. "Do tell, sister dearest.

What delicious chaos has unfolded in our absence?"

Ninkalammu rose to her feet, ash cascading from her form like a macabre waterfall. "Beelzebub," she spat the name like a curse. "That crawling insect has made his move.

He has slaughtered them all - tourists, residents, even our precious Abyssal gift holders. Their souls, ripe for the harvesting, have been stolen away by that accursed contraption."

Utukhulu's eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine surprise passing across her usually impassive features. "The contraption? But how? Its power was meant to be beyond the grasp of lesser beings."

A cruel smile played across Ninkalammu's ash-stained lips. "It seems our wayward princes have not been as cowed as we believed.

Beelzebub, and no doubt the other five, seek to challenge us still.

They mean to revive Lucifer himself."

At this, even Ereshkigaladu's manic energy seemed to falter. "Revive the Morningstar?

Surely that's impossible, even for ones such as they?"

Ninkalammu threw back her head and laughed, a sound that sent shivers through the very fabric of reality. "Oh, it's impossible alright, but not for the reasons they think." Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of triumph and something darker, more primal. "You see, my dears, I have a little secret to share.

Lucifer's soul?

I devoured it myself."

The declaration hung in the air, heavy with implications.

Utukhulu was the first to break the silence. "You... ate the soul of the Lightbringer?" Her voice held a note of awe tinged with fear.

"Indeed," Ninkalammu purred, running a tongue across ash-blackened teeth. "I plucked it from the ether with my own hands and consumed it, much like a spider devouring her mate after their unholy union.

His power, his very essence, now resides within me."

Ereshkigaladu clapped his hands in delight. "Oh, sister!

How deliciously wicked of you!

No wonder these upstart princes never stood a chance."

As the trio reveled in this revelation, a glint of white caught Ninkalammu's eye. There, half-buried in the ash, lay an envelope untouched by the surrounding destruction.

With a gesture, she summoned it to her hand.

"What's this?" she mused, turning the envelope over in her hands. "A parting gift from our elusive quarry, perhaps?"

With a flick of her wrist, Ninkalammu tore open the envelope.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, upon which was written in an elegant, mocking script:

"A gift from the Joker, mwah!"

Before any of them could react, the paper erupted in a blinding flash of light and searing heat.

The explosion engulfed the demonic trio, its otherworldly flames scouring flesh from bone and reducing their magnificent forms to charred husks.

For a moment, all was silent save for the crackle of unholy fire.

Then, with a sound like tearing reality, Ninkalammu's blackened form began to knit itself back together.

Flesh regrew over exposed bone, hair sprouted from a once-barren scalp, and eyes blazing with fury reformed in empty sockets.

As Ereshkigaladu and Utukhulu similarly reconstituted themselves, Ninkalammu's face contorted in a rictus of rage and... something else.

Beneath the anger, there was a glimmer of something almost like respect.

"Well, well," she snarled, brushing ash from her reformed clothing. "It seems our little Joker has more tricks up his sleeve than we anticipated.

He knows our weakness - how delightfully infuriating."

Ereshkigaladu, his mask now half-melted to reveal a face frozen in a manic grin, giggled uncontrollably. "Oh, what fun!

A worthy opponent at last!

Tell me, sister, how do you think he discovered our little Achilles' heel?"

Ninkalammu's eyes narrowed as she contemplated this question. "I don't know," she admitted, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "But I intend to find out. This 'Joker' has just made things far more interesting than I could have hoped."

Utukhulu, her serene mask firmly back in place, spoke up. "What is our next move, my queen?

Surely we cannot allow this affront to go unanswered."

For a long moment, Ninkalammu stood silent, her gaze fixed on the desolate landscape around them.

When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of terrible purpose. "We retreat, for now.

Back to the pits of Hell, where we can regroup and plan our next move.

Beelzebub and his cohorts may think they've won this round, but the game is far from over."

As the demonic trio prepared to depart, none of them noticed the faint shimmer in the air around them - the last lingering traces of a cosmic deception beyond even their comprehension.

For you see, dear reader, what Ninkalammu and her brethren experienced was not reality at all, but an intricate Chronos imprint - a false narrative woven into the very fabric of time and space by one far cleverer than they could have imagined.

Genesis, in his infinite cunning, had crafted this elaborate ruse.

Every ash-covered ruin, every vision of slaughter and soul-theft, even the explosive trap - all were figments of his design, carefully calculated to mislead and misdirect.

As the demons vanished, returning to their infernal realm with heads full of false intelligence and misplaced confidence, a figure stepped out from behind the veil of reality.

Genesis, his eyes gleaming with triumph, surveyed the true landscape of the island - untouched, unburned, and very much alive with the energy of his grand design.

"Dance, my puppets," he murmured, a smile playing across lips that now seemed carved from living shadow. "Dance to the tune I have composed, unaware that every step brings you closer to your own undoing."

With a gesture, Genesis dispelled the last remnants of his illusion.

The mansion stood proud and intact, its walls now painted in pure white.

The contraption, far from stolen, pulsed with otherworldly energy at the heart of his sanctum.

As he strode back towards his stronghold, Genesis couldn't help but marvel at the intricate web he had woven.

The demons believed Beelzebub to be their adversary, chasing shadows while the true architect of their downfall worked unimpeded.

"Let them search for the six princes," he mused. "Let them waste their strength fighting phantoms of their own creation.

And when the time is right, when they have exhausted themselves in pursuit of ghosts and memories, then shall I reveal the true face of their opposition."

Genesis paused at the threshold of the mansion, casting one last glance at the spot where Ninkalammu had performed her ash-smearing ritual.

A cruel smile played across his lips as he contemplated the layers of deception he had crafted.

"They think themselves so clever, so powerful," he murmured. "But they are blind to the truth that stands before them.

I am not Beelzebub, not some pawn in their cosmic game.

I am the Joker, the wild card that will bring their entire house of cards crashing down."

With that, Genesis entered his mansion, mind already racing with plans within plans.

The demons would return, of that he had no doubt.

But when they did, they would find a foe far beyond their comprehension - a being who had looked into the face of Lucifer himself and emerged victorious.

As the doors closed behind him, sealing off the outside world, Genesis allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection.

The game was indeed far from over, but the opening moves had been played to perfection. Now, it was time to prepare for the middle game - a phase that promised chaos, destruction, and the rewriting of reality itself.

In the depths of Hell, Ninkalammu and her cohorts plotted and schemed, believing themselves to be one step ahead of their enemies.

Little did they know that every move they made, every strategy they concocted, was based on a foundation of lies.

And at the center of it all stood Genesis, the master puppeteer, pulling strings that even the mightiest demons could not perceive.

The stage was set, the players in motion, and the greatest deception in the history of creation was only just beginning.

In his chambers, Genesis raised a glass in a mocking toast to his unseen adversaries. "To the Council of Primordiality," he intoned, his voice resonating with eldritch power. "May they never see the truth until it's far too late."

He then stared at the manuscript he was reading, which was The Egyptian Book of The Dead, and murmured to himself.

"Time to create the Shiro no ōkoku..."