What they chewed were human bones, angel wings, demon horns, and every last shred of life in this world.
Those mouths never closed, because there was always something new being fed into them.
The gods were so enormous that they inspired despair.
One god squatted there, blocking out even the sunlight for a hundred miles around.
Their skin was dark red, covered in wrinkles and cracks. Viscous fluid constantly seeped from those cracks, dripping onto the ground and corroding deep pits into it.
Those pits connected into vast stretches, becoming enormous scars. Seen from the sky, the earth looked like a severely burned patient, without an inch of unscarred skin.
Devouring was their sole law.
They devoured the land, leaving the ground riddled with enormous craters, as though something had dug out its heart.
They devoured mountains and rivers, turning mountain ranges into basins, diverting rivers, drying up lakes. Former riverbeds were left with nothing but cracked mud and fossilized fish bones.
They devoured living things, so all creation withered, beasts vanished, forests became wastelands, and oceans turned into stagnant dead water.
They devoured energy, so holy light dimmed, darkness fell silent, and even the air grew thin.
They even devoured the holy light of angels and the darkness of demons. Those extraordinary powers, boundless in might to ordinary people, were merely snacks with different flavors in the mouths of the gods—some spicy, some cloyingly sweet, some sour and bitter. But they were not picky eaters.
Humans were raised by the gods in designated pastures.
The pastures were surrounded by enormous fences carved with runes, not to prevent humans from escaping, but to keep other gods from stealing a bite.
Every pasture was an independent ecosystem, with rivers, grasslands, and crude wooden huts.
Humans were packed together like livestock, without