The Relics have been broken.
The Immortals have fled.
The Ruins were swept aside.
Now comes a great Disaster unto mankind.
"I swore I would return here one day. It seemed so much more beautiful in my dreams,"
He heard the recording one last time, sent to him and a million billion other star systems. Raeyn was here, and she claimed Earth as her stomping grounds. It amused him to a certain level, that an entity as dangerous as her would find a place of peace in such a backwater world. Still, he had to admire her choice. He would have done no differently in a past life. Still, he had to fear in his heart as he plotted and planned for the invasion. This effort was countless centuries in the making, beginning with the very first Warsman. It would end with him, for he refused to allow the Prophecy of War to claim him as just another link in its chains. Entire dimensions crumbled in his path. Realities all along the ebb and flow of the infinite cosmic webways trembled at his touch.
It all culminated here.
As of now, the state of Hawaii enjoyed a peaceful summer day. Tourist traffic to its beaches seemed to be at an all-time high for the season. Other pointless statistics met his steely gaze only to be dismissed. He focused on the when and where of the armies Earth seemed to rely on in times of need. STRIKE had finished dealing with the Cataclysm, an event that taught Warsman much about the Vine verse's tenacity in the face of oppression and apocalyptic forces. They were no strangers to the concept of total annihilation and stared into the eyes of Death on many occasions. Yet Death, even as an embodiment and a conceptual constant in the grand scheme of all reality and beyond, met the Icon of War with disdain rather than dismissal or neutral benevolence. He had nothing to fear from her.
As the Infinite Mistress of the Thousand Worlds of Rytorus, I hereby claim Earth as a Protectorate of Rytorus, the Thousand Worlds will come to its aid if ever another invasion force determines to assault the planet.
Warsman heard this part of the recording above all else. The first time the cosmic transmission entered his throne room, he barely batted an eye. In any realm, time eaters were a force to be reckoned with. No army could march against them. No weapon could do them harm. The same could be said of the many gods and goddesses who would gladly defend the Earthen realm. The Champion and the Liafador came to mind, but there would be many others.
Such is the reason why the boom tube reigned as one of the most crucial elements of this plan. Simple boxes at first, but at the flick of a switch they turned into ferries across endless swaths of space. Putting troops on the ground seemed folly at first. Something as unnecessarily brutal as that would prove pointless and costly in the long run. Even with his endless armies, Warsman did not throw them around expecting the vast weight of military might alone to prove his superiority. That, above all other things, showed the callous insecurities of other so-called galactic tyrants. That is why Warsman sat above them all as a conqueror of many other things besides mere galaxies.
The first phase would be simple. Rather than bringing Ragnarok close to Earth and risk immediate detection, the bombardment began over Hawaii as promised to the one named Ulysses. Without the green mutant's curious interest in starting a community - however forcefully - upon the tropical island nation, Warsman would not have a focused opportunity like this. Otherwise, a target of cultural significance or national importance would have been selected. Hawaii seemed perfect not only because of its relationship with the most powerful country on the Earth, but also because of its isolation. The Pacific Ocean would soon speak volumes of the suffering.
At first, no bombs left the boom tubes opened above the atmosphere of the islands. They were left open for a short amount of time, and the projectiles specifically targeted major broadcasting network hubs and power plants of every kind. The islands grew dark in that instant, if not for the sun, but the sky would turn dark in a matter of moments. The projectiles were no mere concussive blast or laser beam charged with enough kinetic force to accomplish such destruction. They were signatures of the God of Evil, cast from his eyes and even deeper from his core within the Furnace of Eternity. They were unlike anything else in all of time and space, untouched by those outside the Warsman title. A weapon suiting a god, so that he could destroy and recreate at will from his station without moving.
The granite-like visage of Warsman glowered deeper into the boom tubes, admiring his handiwork as he continued to blast apart the tender underbelly of the islands. Panic spread, but they were pinned down and alone in the middle of a tumultuous ocean landscape. At least, for now. According to the horror of the moment, they were susceptible to the undying power of a cosmic constant, an embodiment of something that has claimed and will forever claim the lives of innocents and the guilty. Merciless, unbending, such was the might of the Furnace, that it tore apart all things on a molecular level. Molecules were ripped apart, contained, and dispersed into nothingness as the energies of this unimaginable power swept across the earth, turning all it touched to ash and fire.
And, in as swift a motion as the boom tubes opened, they closed, and the islands knew a moment of mercy. Yet, the mercies of Warsman were few and far between, often leading to something else he had in mind to torture and maim apart those he called 'enemy.' These people did nothing to him. They were civilians in a war they did not understand, a war that had been waged ever since the beginning of time. But the kindness and the hatred of the Beginning and the End were one in the same. He would spare no one in this war against life, against anything that stood in his way.
That is when the boom tubes opened once more, and the metademons emerged, with their method of coming here disappearing in the process. Untrackable, and with the only option of those ready to fight to wait for the next wave. And the next. And the next.
Vicious, hulking monstrosities, they ravaged and tore through those who would have survived. Yet, inevitably, they were fodder. Highly skilled though they were, their true passions were mere carnage and savagery. There would be champions who would rally the feeble and the meek against the tide. But for how long? The entire island, consumed by war in a matter of minutes, stood at the forefront of something greater.
The generals of Ragnarok were gathered.
A war unlike any other had come.
"You are not prepared."