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When Grisha dragged himself out of the Chaos Sea, His instincts told Him to look around at what the world had become before He attracted the attention of future enemies. Before He returned the sun to the sky. Before He became anything more than a man clawing His way out of an abyss that had swallowed everything He once knew.
And so, He did.
He did not need to listen to campfire songs to know the old tales—they were written into the fabric of this broken world, accessible to Him as surely as His own heartbeat. He did not need to crouch in rafters to hear merchants' gossip—the knowledge simply arrived, settling into His mind like snow on still water. He knew the languages of every race, the customs of every tribe, the fears that gnawed at the hearts of mortals and gods alike.
He knew.
He knew of Flegrea's ongoing issues with the Fae King—how the Demonic Wolf of Annihilation had lost three mountains to the Celestial's Wall. He knew of the fragile alliance of humanoid gods versus the bestial ones. He knew which beastmen tribes devoured humans and which were not quite so barbaric. He knew of the burgeoning romance between Pirate Queen Cohinem and Elf King Soniathrym—the Tyrant God of the Sea and Storms, whose divine kingdom lay in the Sonia Sea.
He knew the location of every forest that harbored treants and every grove that sheltered fairies. He knew the safest routes for transporting goods and the most dangerous ruins for curious explorers. He knew that Phoenix Ancestor Gregrace and Mutant King Kvastir had fallen out over a matter that had to do with the Spirit World—a dispute that had been brewing for decades and would not be resolved anytime soon.
He knew about the villages pillaged by slavers. He knew about the poor souls spirited away while exploring ruins. He knew about the new minor god rising in the east, claiming to be the 'Voice of the Forest'—a being so insignificant that Grisha's attention barely lingered on Him.
And He knew that most humans lived in servitude to other races.
Because of His new powers, because of the knowledge etched into His very soul by the Blasphemy Slate, He knew what almost none of those other "races" knew. Everyone—everyone—even the dragons, even the giants, even the gods themselves—were originally human. Altered beyond recognition by Beyonder characteristics, yes. Twisted into shapes that would have been unimaginable in the world He remembered. But human, nonetheless.
'Well, except for those who were never human to begin with…'
The more He perceived, the more He realized that somehow, the world had gone through an apocalypse and turned into an insane Bloodborne sequel.
And yet.
There was a gap in His knowledge. A blind spot. A place where His omniscience simply... stopped.
He knew the names of the eight principal Gods. He knew their domains, their territories, their weaknesses. But there was one god—one being—who existed in the world but not in Grisha's perception. A being whose nature was obscured, whose very existence was a void in the fabric of Grisha's omniscience.
The Fae King.
Grisha could perceive the Fae King's effects on the world—the rumors, the fear He inspired, His kingdom hidden behind an impenetrable fog wall. He could see the ripples the Fae King left behind, the deals He had made, the changes He had wrought. But He could not perceive the Fae King Himself. It was as if the god was a shadow that cast no reflection, a flame that produced no heat.
A living being, a god of the current era, who existed outside Grisha's perception.
Grisha did not dwell on the implications.
As He carefully made His way out of the ruins of Chernobyl, He made the decision that once He had established Himself in this new world, only then He would decide what to do about a being who was most likely His only true equal in this world.
As His steps crunched under His feet, Grisha calmly gazed out at dark landscape under the light of the crimson moon. His powers over shadows aiding Him to find His way in the gloom whenever His eyes faltered.
Listlessly He thought to Himself.
'I'm glad RuiRui isn't here.'
He didn't dwell on that thought. He had long since grown used to that particular grief—a dull, familiar ache, like an old wound that throbbed in cold weather. He had lost Zhou Mingrui months before His world and future had been swallowed by the Chaos Sea. It was a familiar weight He clung to happily and with no regrets, even after surviving the Apocalypse.
---
As far as Grisha was concerned, He needed to fix this world back into something more recognizable. A world where humanity thrived in its natural state.
First, He needed enough power to kill the other gods and instate Himself as the one true god. He would use Christianity as a template—He knew it best, had too many things to do, and couldn't be bothered to overthink religious philosophy, dogma, and its repercussions. Ergo, He would become The Creator: a god dissatisfied with the way the current pantheon treated His creations, returned to take back His power and set things right.
He began finding all the minor gods of this era—those not allied with any of the principal gods—and gave each one a choice: join me or die.
He managed to amass quite a few new abilities before His followers started numbering in the dozens. The most remarkable recruits were Medici—a Red Priest pathway Sequence 2 whose ambition and cunning were matched only by His martial ability—and Ouroboros, a Wheel of Fortune pathway Sequence 2 who had apparently foreseen Grisha's arrival and had been waiting.
When Grisha asked Ouroboros what He had seen, the snake-eyed god had simply smiled and said: "A golden era of peace."
Unbidden an image flashed before Grisha's eyes. An image of two men and their children playing together, one peaceful afternoon. He immediately shoved the thought aside. Such an idyllic wish was impossible in this world. He was building an empire, not a family.
Grisha was distantly pleased to hear that His efforts would be successful, but knew that this would only be true if things remained as they currently were.
There was only one god—the only independent power left—who could seriously put a wrench in His plans.
The Fae King.
He was also the only one Grisha had never been able to find.
It was finally time for Grisha to seriously think about what to do about Him.
---
Then Grisha heard whispers of the Fae King's movements.
"The Fae King likes to play in those ruins in the East. The old ones that look like snow in the moonlight. Some say it's where He goes before a Wild Hunt. Some say He's giving the spirits of restless spirits the chance to settle some scores."
And then, more specific: "He's been seen near the ruins at the entrance of the Horns."
Grisha had felt something cold settle in His chest, because there was only one ruin at the entrance of the Horns.
Chernobyl.
Chernobyl was not a place anyone visited for pleasure. It was a monument that even to this day felt like the ghost of a world that no longer existed. And yet, the Fae King had been seen there. Multiple times.
'An ominous coincidence,' Grisha thought. 'Or a message.'
He was almost certain that this god had started the rumors Himself, once He realized what Grisha had been up to. A method for the Fae King to subtly point out that He knew something about who Grisha truly was. A lure. A test.
He would have to proceed with caution. He needed to check exactly what this god knew about Him and His past, before He passed judgement.
---
He left His followers in a camp forty minutes' walk away from the ruins, with instructions to stay there for a full moon cycle of the sky. He didn't believe anyone in His camp would figure out the truth behind His origins from seeing the outside of Chernobyl, but He'd rather make sure not to accidentally scare off the Fae King when He showed up. He equally cautioned them not to come close until it was time.
"I would like to speak to Him alone," He said, addressing Medici and Ouroboros directly. "He's a canny god, capable of trickery, deceit, and other bizarre powers. Besides, if He truly is the Master of the Spirit World, as the rumors say, it would probably look better if the Master of the Astral World came to ask for an alliance alone."
Medici looked unimpressed. "If He truly made Phoenix Ancestor Gregrace nervous, I wouldn't recommend it."
"Have a little faith, Medici," Grisha said, and there was something in His voice that made Medici's eyes narrow. "All things originated within me. So too did His powers. But, for now, this is a diplomatic mission."
Ouroboros, predictably, simply smiled.
Grisha cautioned Them not to come close until it was time, and then He walked into the ruins alone.
---
Chernobyl was exactly as He remembered it, back when He emerged from the Chaos Sea and dragged Himself through the debris, emerging from the ruins into this strange, new world. The supernatural machinations of God Almighty had certainly worked in mysterious ways. Keeping Grisha for Himself, while melting the rest of the researchers into nothingness.
Had Grisha emerged powerless, would He have felt more fear and dread, rather than just cold acceptance? He wasn't sure. Maintaining a balance between His humanity and divinity, meant that this was a serious matter to consider. However, Grisha had been listlessly going through the motions of living before. Could He sincerely know if He had too much divinity, at this moment? Was He sure He wasn't still dissociating?
'I miss you,' He thought, and the thought was old and worn and familiar. 'I miss you so much it feels like I'm still drowning in apathy. Still double-checking if I'm still capable of caring about anything else anymore.'
Then, just as easily, His thoughts turned to the preparations He had made for this encounter.
---
After what felt like a couple of hours, a cold, humid breeze seemed to emanate from outside.
Grisha walked over to what was left of the doorway and looked out.
A light fog had enveloped the area, creeping between the broken buildings like a living thing. In the distance, He heard barking—but it was wrong, somehow. Too deep. Too echoing. As if the sound was coming from somewhere that wasn't quite here.
Above a dilapidated column, half-swallowed by rust and time, sat a cloaked figure. It was clear that the figure in front of Him was a marionette, but the pressure it emanated clearly broadcast that a higher power was actively puppeting it to act out this charade.
The figure had His hood down, His face lowered as if He was reading something—a letter, perhaps, or a book. The blood-red moon hung behind Him like an ominous backdrop, casting everything in shades of crimson and shadow.
Grisha felt His heart stop.
He could not see the figure's face clearly. But there was something strange about how the other god held Himself. Familiar somehow...
'No,' Grisha thought, irritated at His sudden flight of fancy before beginning such a critical meeting. 'Many people sit like that. You've seen your fair share at university.'
Grisha stepped out of the doorway, His body language calm and unthreatening. Only getting close enough to be in talking distance and be able to see each other clearly.
"Fae King, I presume?" He called out.
The figure did not look up. "You presume correctly." His voice was soft, melodic, and utterly calm. "I've been expecting you, Creator God."
Grisha's eyes narrowed. "Have you?"
"You've been making quite a name for yourself. Collecting gods. Building an army. Claiming to be the Creator returned to set the world right." The Fae King turned a page. "It's all very dramatic. Very... grandiose."
"It got the job done." Grisha said serenely.
"Of course, it did." The Fae King's tone was unreadable. "And now you've come to me. The last independent god. The only one who hasn't bowed down to your 'join me or die' ultimatum." He finally raised His head, and Grisha felt His breath catch.
The Fae King's face was hidden in shadow, but His eyes—His eyes were made of starlight. They were ancient. Alien. The eyes of something that remembered once being stardust and now held all the secrets of the universe, watching the mortals around it bumble about with amused indifference. This being held the presence of something much greater than the principal gods of this time.
With just this much revealed, Grisha knew that if there were a bit more light, He'd be able to see the Fae King's true face.
"So," the Fae King said, and there was something almost familiar in His cadence, something that made Grisha's chest ache with longing, "are you going to make me an offer, Creator God?"
Grisha did not answer immediately. He was staring at the Fae King's face, trying to understand what His instincts were trying to tell Him. Trying to find something—anything—that made sense.
"I'm not going to kill you," He said slowly. "And I'm not going to recruit you."
The Fae King raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you here?"
Grisha politely smiled up at Him. "I just wanted to pay my respects, Mysteries."
The Fae King's mask of indifference never wavered. But, Grisha could tell He was highly unimpressed with Grisha's answer.
"Oh? You're going to pay me? Is this going to be in cash or credit, Almighty? Do yourself a favor and be explicit, or I might decide to take the things you say and give them more convenient meanings. You know how fairies are, don't you?"
Grisha's smile didn't waver. He knew the type. This was a test.
Celestial Worthy of Heaven and Earth for Blessings and God Almighty had killed each other during the chaos after the apocalypse, leaving behind a sunless world. The two Great Old Ones had left behind revival plans that could help them resurrect in the world once more. Grisha had been abducted by God Almighty to be His failsafe, and Grisha was quite confident Celestial Worthy wasn't any more benevolent to His own.
Grisha decided to brush past this revelation and get straight to His question. Despite the fact that it was now painfully obvious that They were both from the same era.
"I presume nothing. Although if I had to judge by your accent, wouldn't the fairies you grew up with be cultivated beauties rather than monstrous, tiny tricksters?"
The Fae King's tiny terrors surprisingly didn't jump up at the provocation, despite Grisha seeing them moving around in the treeline. 'Very clever, little terrors.'
Grisha turned back to look up at the cloaked figure. "That said, why did you ask me to come visit you in Chernobyl?"
The Fae King was silent for a long moment.
"Is that where we are?" He said finally. "The topography has changed so drastically I couldn't be sure where this was in the before."
"So, you didn't know this was the entrance to the Chaos Sea, either?" Grisha's voice was soft. "Is the corruption emanating from these ruins not obvious? Are these ruins really so comfortable? You are the God of Time. What about its history? Its... significance?"
The Fae King's hands, still holding the letter, had gone still. He was not moving. Not breathing. It was as if He had turned to stone.
"It's quiet here," the Fae King finally answered, His voice barely above a whisper. "As long as I don't go inside, it's fine."
Some energy returned to His voice as He pulled out a snack from somewhere. "And while time and history is a part of my domain, I'm the God of Change, if we must be specific."
Grisha stared at the snack—a familiar stick of candied fruit on a skewer—a type of sweet snack He hadn't seen anywhere else in this strange new world, and felt something in His chest crack open.
"What are you eating?" He asked, His voice strange even to His own ears.
The Fae King's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sharing my tanghulu."
The words hit Grisha like a physical blow. The cadence. The tone. The way He said tanghulu—the word was wrong for this world, an anachronism that no one in this era should know, let alone pronounce correctly.
Not to mention, this being had immediately demanded money to mock Him...
'It could be him. It might be him. Could he have been here all along? How could he have survived? What if he survived and I—'
Grisha's mind was racing, His heart pounding, and before He could think, before He could plan, before He could do anything sensible—He raised His hand to the sky and spoke a single phrase:
"Let there be light."
And there was light.
---
The world changed in that moment.
A blazing, golden sun erupted into existence, hanging in the sky where only the blood-red moon had been. It was not a gentle light. It was not a tentative light. It was a declaration—a proclamation that the darkness was over, that a new era had begun, that the world would never be the same.
The light washed over Chernobyl, over the ruins and the dilapidated walls and the overgrown vegetation. It washed over the fairy hounds, who yelped in surprise and melted back into the fog. It washed over Grisha's camp forty minutes away, where Medici shielded His eyes and cursed, and Ouroboros closed His eyes and smiled knowingly.
And it washed over Zhou Mingrui, who squinted up at the sun and scowled.
"Are you trying to blind me?"
Grisha looked up at the Fae King's disgruntled face—the familiar set of His jaw, the way His nose crinkled when He was annoyed, the utterly Mingrui way He was squinting at the sky as if the sun had personally offended Him—and the last of His doubt crumbled.
'IT IS HIM!'
"My RuiRui," Grisha breathed, and then He was grinning—grinning like a madman, like a man who had just found water in a desert, like a man who had been drowning for years and had finally, finally been pulled to shore.
"I've finally found you."
Zhou Mingrui looked down at Grisha with shock upon hearing the nickname. The mask of the Fae King—the ancient, alien, untouchable persona—simply shattered.
He basically tripped, fell, and teleported in front of the new sun god, looking into His similar yet changed features. His hands came up to cup Grisha's face, His eyes scanning every inch of it—the dark hair, the glowing golden roots, the short blonde beard.
"What—" Mingrui's voice cracked. "What happened to you? Your hair—it's black now. And your roots are—"
"Gold," Grisha said, His voice thick with tears He hadn't even noticed He was crying. "I know. I'm sorry. I don't know if I can change it back—"
"No." Mingrui shook His head, His thumbs brushing away Grisha's tears. "No, I like it. It's different, but it's still you. You're still—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "You're still you."
Grisha laughed—a wet, broken sound. "Ah, I'm not so sure about that. It's technically me, with 50% more divinity and a surprise Majin Buu issue if I lose control."
Mingrui stared at Him for a long moment, His fingers still tracing Grisha's features as if He was memorizing them all over again. Then He just looked at Grisha with a deeply unimpressed stare.
"You ruined it! It's been so long since we've seen each other, and you had to crack a Dragon Ball reference almost immediately? You don't see me saying things like 'at least we're both stuck in Yharnam together'!"
Grisha smiled foolishly, holding Mingrui’s hands in His, and kissing His fingers as He listened to His boyfriend judge Him. It was a guaranteed way of calming Mingrui's fussing.
With an exasperated sigh, lo and behold, slowly, a smile spread across Mingrui’s face—the same smile Grisha remembered, the one that had always made His heart do strange things in His chest.
"You grew a beard," Mingrui said, and His voice was fond. "You always look scruffy when you're stressed. Why did you let yourself get so scruffy?"
Grisha smiled—a soft, helpless smile. "Maybe you should marry me and make sure it never happens again."
Mingrui's eyes went wide. Then, to Grisha's absolute delight, He blushed.
"We—you—" He sputtered, clearly flustered. "We need to do things properly if you still want to. We're both gods now with our own responsibilities to our people. Not to mention we have to do image control—we're gods, we need to take more care of our images than when we were still people. And our people don't exactly get along—"
"You're thinking too much about it, my 42."
"Forty-two—" Mingrui's eye twitched.
"It's a good number. Meaningful."
"Don't you dare mention towels—"
"All we need to do is explain that this is how things are going to be from now on," Grisha said, cutting Him off gently. "Maybe make up a new mythology while we're at it. You never know what you'll get if you throw enough things in a pot after all."
Mingrui stared at Him. "Wait. That's not a saying... and you barely cook, how would you even know that? You've melted every bowl I've seen you touch."
"Well, you see, I was missing my babusia's borscht, so I was explaining the ingredients and cooking process to one of my subordinates, and somehow we made slow-acting acid."
Mingrui stared at Him for a long, disbelieving moment. Then, without warning, He grabbed Grisha and threw Him through a doorway that hadn't been there a second before.
---
Grisha tumbled out into the middle of His camp, twisting in mid-air and landing comfortably on His feet.
Medici and a few others jumped up, afraid they were being attacked. Medici's hand was already on his sword.
Grisha waved Him down. "It's fine. Everything's fine. Just—wait."
Soon, the real Mingrui stepped through the same doorway, His expression a perfect mask of serene annoyance. He was wearing a stylized black hanfu with bright yellow traditional designs and accents, looking every bit as majestic as His station demanded.
"Which one of your subordinates is marrying us?" He asked, looking around the camp.
Grisha seemed to swoon, grinning madly. "I thought you didn't want to get married yet."
"If I leave you alone for another minute, you might get more bright ideas—like making a cake—and then we'd all be in trouble." Mingrui's eyes were scanning the camp, evaluating each follower in turn. "So. Who's the most responsible one? Who can officiate a wedding without turning it into a disaster?"
Medici stared at the Fae King as if He had grown a second head. "You want us to officiate a wedding? Now? Here? We're in the middle of a military campaign—"
"This is more important," Grisha said, His voice utterly sincere.
Medici opened His mouth, closed it, and looked to Ouroboros for backup.
Ouroboros, predictably, was nodding along. His serene smile still intact.
"A strange way to start a golden age," he said, his voice a low, knowing whisper. "But, not unheard of."
Medici pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hate this. I hate all of this."
"Noted," Mingrui said, not sounding particularly concerned. He turned to Grisha. "Fine. We'll have a proper ceremony later. But for now—" He looked around the camp, His eyes landing on a small cluster of fairies that had followed Him through the doorway. "—we'll do something simple. Something to mark the occasion."
"I don't have a ring," Grisha admitted.
Mingrui smiled, and Grisha felt His heart do a strange little flip. "Make it an IOU," He said, "It'll give you time to decide if you want wedding rings, ropes, necklaces, swords, or spoons, to be a part of your religion."
Grisha looked even more giddy at the thought. "You still remember that?" Grisha's voice was suddenly hoarse.
"It's only been four hundred and twenty years," Mingrui said fondly. "It was an interesting conversation."
Grisha took His hands into His not-quite-steady hands. He looked at Mingrui, and then at the sun hanging in the sky above them—His sun, His creation—and He felt something inside Him finally, finally settle.
"You want to know something," He said, His voice a quiet promise.
Mingrui raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Grisha smiled, and the sunlight caught His face in a way that made Him look more like the man He had been—the man He had always been—than anything He had become.
"I lit up the world to see you again."
"Grisha, no." Mingrui immediately took it back. He wanted a divorce.
---
Grisha grinned and raised His hands for silence.
"My people," He announced, His voice carrying across the courtyard with the weight of divinity, "I am honored to present to you my consort—the Fae King of the Fairfolk, sovereign of the Feywild, Master of the Spirit World and its crossroads, and the light of my existence. He will stand by my side as we build a new world together."
The crowd went silent.
Then, from somewhere in the back, someone shouted: "THREE CHEERS FOR THE QUEEN OF HEAVEN!"
The crowd, never one to miss an opportunity for celebration, took up the cry with enthusiasm.
"THE QUEEN OF HEAVEN! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN OF HEAVEN!"
Mingrui's face went through several expressions in rapid succession: confusion, dawning horror, and then a deep, burning mortification that turned the tips of His ears a shade of red that clashed magnificently with His wedding robes.
He turned to Grisha, His eyes wide with panic. "What—what did they just call me?"
Grisha, who was absolutely not helping the situation, was grinning like a madman. "The Queen of Heaven," He said, His voice full of barely suppressed laughter. "I think it's fitting, don't you? You are my consort. And you're a god. And you rule a hidden kingdom. It's very—"
"Grisha."
"—poetic, really. I should have thought of it myself."
Mingrui's eye twitched. "I am a king. I am a male god. I am—" He gestured at His robes, His crown, His very masculine face. "—clearly not a queen!"
"Technically," Grisha said, still grinning, "you're a consort. And consort can be a gender-neutral term. The 'Queen of Heaven' is just—"
"Grisha."
"—a very enthusiastic interpretation of that term."
Mingrui opened His mouth to respond—probably to say something scathing—when He noticed movement at the edge of the crowd.
His fairies.
They had been watching Him, their round eyes gleaming with barely suppressed glee. And now, as they saw Him looking, they began to move—slowly, deliberately, with the kind of theatrical gravitas that only fairies could manage.
One by one, they stepped out of the crowd and knelt before Him, their hands pressed to their chests in exaggerated reverence.
"The Queen of Heaven," they intoned, their voices carrying across the courtyard like a chorus of tiny bells. "We are honored to serve you, Our Queen."
Mingrui stared at them in horror.
They stared back, their eyes sparkling with mischief.
'They know exactly what they're doing,' He realized. 'They're never going to let this go. This is one of the worst kinds of social death!'
Grisha, who had been watching the whole thing with barely concealed delight, leaned over to whisper in His ear. "I think they like the title."
"They're doing this on purpose."
"Of course they are. They're your fairies. They love you. And they love chaos. This is the perfect combination."
Mingrui turned to His husband—His husband, He still couldn't quite believe it—and hissed through gritted teeth: "I am never getting rid of this name now."
Grisha beamed at Him. "You really aren't."
"I'm going to be the 'Queen of Heaven' for the rest of eternity."
"Probably."
"Grisha, this is your fault."
"How is this my fault? I didn't tell them to call you that."
"You gave that speech. You called me your consort. You made it sound—" Mingrui gestured helplessly. "—romantic."
Grisha's grin softened into something more genuine. "Because it is. You are my consort. And I am very, very glad that you are."
Mingrui opened His mouth to argue—then closed it again. His blush deepened, and He looked away.
"I hate you," He muttered.
"You love me."
"I love you, and I hate you."
Grisha laughed and pulled Him close. "I love you too, my Queen."
Mingrui groaned, but He didn't pull away. "I'm going to be called that for the rest of my existence."
"Yes, you are."
"This is going to be a thing."
"It's already a thing. The fairies are going to spread it everywhere. By tomorrow, every god in the world will know that the Fae King of the Feywild is the Queen of Heaven."
Mingrui buried His face in Grisha's shoulder. "I hate you so much."
"You love me," Grisha repeated, pressing a kiss to the top of His head. "And you're very, very pretty when you're embarrassed."
"I'm not pretty. I'm—I'm a powerful god. I'm terrifying. I'm—"
"You're blushing."
"I am not—"
"You are. It's adorable."
Mingrui lifted His head just enough to glare at Grisha. "I am going to make your life very difficult."
"I'm counting on it."
And despite everything—despite the mortification, the fairies, the crowd still cheering "THE QUEEN OF HEAVEN" with increasing enthusiasm—Mingrui found Himself laughing.
It was a small laugh, barely more than a huff, but it was real.