The first to fall wasn't the loudest god.
It was the oldest.
The one no one had named in centuries.
The one worshipped out of habit, not memory.
The one whose throne was built entirely from passive faith.
And when the silence spread...
That god simply ceased.
No explosion.
No collapse.
No screams.
Just a hollow wind through a forgotten temple.
And a throne—once made of light—turning to dust.
A monk in the eastern cliffs felt it first.
He stood up from prayer and said, "It's done."
A city of former devotees awoke with no urge to kneel.
The statues in the streets cracked at the base—clean, final, quiet.
In the Celestial Court, Vaikuntharaja roared.
He screamed the god's name, over and over, trying to anchor it in memory.
But no one remembered.
Not even the pantheon.
The name was gone.
Not because it was erased.
Because it was released.
Aarav stood in the mountains, eyes closed, spine straight.
He didn't celebrate.
Because this wasn't a victory.
It was a natural ending.
One throne down.
More to go.
And still, he didn't kneel.