The tale begins not with thunder or divine proclamation, but with the quiet desperation of a man named Lykos. In the modest village of Elateia, where the highest ambition was a good harvest and the deepest fear was a poor one, Lykos had found himself adrift. His wife had passed in childbirth, taking their infant with her, and the fields that once sustained him now seemed to mock his solitude.

It was in this hollowed-out state that he first turned to Hestia, the goddess of the hearth and home. Unlike the grand temples dedicated to Zeus or the wild hunts of Artemis, Hestia's worship was humble, centered around the family fire. For Lykos, this was fitting. His home was all he had left, and so he began to tend his hearth with an almost religious fervor.

"Great Hestia," he would whisper, pouring a small libation of olive oil into the flames each morning, "mistress of the quiet flame, I am your servant."

The first sacrifices were simple: the choicest bits of his meager meals, a portion of his bread, a cup of his watered wine. He was not a wealthy man, and his offerings reflected his station. In the beginning, they were genuine acts of devotion, a way to give structure to his grief and purpose to his days. He found comfort in the ritual, in the idea that someone, somewhere, was watching over his small, broken home.

But as the seasons turned, so did Lykos's heart. His grief curdled into resentment. He saw his neighbors with their families, their laughter echoing through the village streets while his own hearth remained silent save for the crackle of the fire. He began to feel that his devotion was a one-way street, that he was pouring his soul into the flames for a goddess who was, at best, indifferent.

"I give and I give," he muttered one evening, watching the oil sizzle and burn. "And what do I receive in return? Silence. Always silence."

His offerings began to change. He would deliberately choose the burnt parts of his bread, the sourest wine. He would whisper his prayers with a sarcastic twist, his voice dripping with a bitterness he no longer bothered to hide. He was no longer a devout follower; he was a resentful employee, going through the motions while silently seething at his divine employer.

Hestia, from her eternal throne at the heart of Olympus, was indeed aware of him. But as Lykos suspected, he was but one of thousands, millions, who called upon her name. She felt his initial grief, as she felt the warmth of all hearths, and she accepted his offerings with the quiet grace that was her nature. But as his prayers turned from pleas for comfort to demands for compensation, as his sacrifices became tinged with spite, she felt a different kind of warmth—the slow burn of annoyance.

The gods were not accustomed to being mocked, especially not the gentle ones. And Lykos, in his quiet cottage, was about to learn that even the most restrained of goddesses has her limits.

The transformation of Lykos's worship began subtly. Perhaps it was his growing bitterness, or perhaps it was the perverse thrill of defying a deity he felt had ignored him, but his sacrifices began to escalate. Where once he offered a crust of bread, he now began slaughtering the fattest lamb from his small flock, an extravagance he could ill afford. He built a larger altar in his home, adorning it with flowers stolen from his neighbor's garden.

"Come," he said to a young, impressionable farmhand named Nikos who had expressed admiration for Lykos's devotion. "Join me in honoring the great Hestia. She has blessed me with... purpose."

Nikos, seeing the lavish offerings and the intensity in Lykos's eyes, agreed. Soon, others followed—those on the fringes of society, the discontented, the curious. Lykos's cottage became a place of nightly gatherings, where the air grew thick with incense and the sound of fervent, sometimes frantic, prayer.

On Olympus, the situation was becoming a problem. The gods, particularly the more gluttonous ones like Dionysus and the ever-hungry Demeter, had begun to take notice. The sacrifices offered to Hestia were, by divine right, hers alone to consume. But the scale of Lykos's offerings had grown so immense that the other gods could smell the roasted meats and sweet cakes from their thrones.

"Sister," boomed Zeus, his nose twitching as the scent of a perfectly roasted boar wafted through the great hall. "You seem to be receiving quite the bounty from your mortal followers. Far more than you can possibly consume."

Hestia, seated quietly by the great hearth of the gods, merely nodded. "They are... enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic?" laughed Ares, spearing a piece of meat that had appeared on his own plate, courtesy of a servant who had intercepted it. "They are fanatical. I have half a mind to claim them for myself. A cult with such spirit would be a fine addition to my own."

And so it began. The gods, in their divine selfishness, began to help themselves. Athena would partake of the wisdom-seeking offerings, Poseidon of those from fishermen, and Aphrodite of the lovers' tributes. Hestia, bound by her own gentle nature and the unwritten rules of Olympus, found herself forced to consume her share. Night after night, she would sit at her hearth, silently eating the mountains of food that appeared before her, her stomach churning, her divine form growing uncomfortably full. She was a goddess of moderation, being consumed by excess.

Meanwhile, in Elateia, Lykos's "rituals" were spiraling into depravity. The prayers became chants, the chants became screams. The wine flowed freely, and the gatherings devolved into bacchanals. Lykos, no longer a grieving widower but a self-appointed high priest, presided over them with a wild, feverish energy.

"For Hestia!" he would cry, pouring wine over the altar and onto the floor. "The goddess of the home demands our passion!"

The participants, drunk on wine and fervor, would moan her name in ecstasy, their bodies writhing in the firelight. The sacred hearth became a stage for profane acts, the symbol of domestic tranquility transformed into an altar of debauchery. They were no longer honoring the goddess; they were using her name as a justification for their own base desires.

The final straw came on the night of a great festival. Lykos, his eyes wild with a madness fueled by resentment and power, announced a "Grand Offering." He had acquired, through theft and coercion, the finest foods and wines from the entire region. His followers, a mob of drunken revelers, gathered in his home, which had been expanded into a crude temple.

"Tonight," he shouted, "we give Hestia everything! We hold nothing back! Let the goddess see our true devotion!"

The orgy that followed was the most obscene yet. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, wine, and smoke. The sounds of their "worship" could be heard throughout the village. And on Olympus, Hestia felt it all. She felt the perversion of her sacred name, the desecration of the hearth's sanctity. As the final, massive sacrifice appeared before her—a mountain of food and drink that would have sated an army—she knew something had to be done.

She stood, her form radiating a quiet, terrifying fury that made even Zeus pause. The goddess of the hearth, the gentle, the restrained, had been pushed too far. It was time for Lykos and his followers to learn the true meaning of divine wrath.

The transformation was not limited to the mortal realm. As Lykos's cult grew in number and depravity, so too did the goddess they claimed to worship. Hestia, once the epitome of gentle domesticity and quiet grace, began to change.

The first sign was her appetite. Where once she would consume her offerings with a sense of duty and moderation, she now attacked them with a ravenous greed. She would no longer wait for the proper rituals; instead, she would snatch sacrifices from the air the moment they were offered, her divine hands grasping for roasted meats and sweet cakes with a desperate, almost feral hunger. Her once-slender form began to soften, then to expand. Her cheeks grew round, her belly strained against the simple chitons she favored, and her movements became slow and lumbering.

The other gods watched with a mixture of amusement and horror.

"Look at her," whispered Hermes, nudging Dionysus. "The goddess of the hearth has become a glutton. Who would have thought?"

Hestia, however, was beyond caring. She would spend her days and nights in the great hall of Olympus, her throne moved closer to the hearth, surrounded by a constant stream of food. She would eat until she was sick, then eat again, her divine body processing the mountain of offerings with supernatural speed only to make room for more.

Her demeanor changed as well. The quiet, restrained goddess was gone, replaced by a belligerent, demanding deity. She snapped at servants, growled at her fellow gods, and demanded more, always more.

"Is that all?" she would bellow, her voice no longer soft but a guttural roar. "My followers sacrifice more than this! Bring me more!"

The final, most disturbing change was her treatment of the spirits who entered her realm. As the goddess of the hearth, she was also the guardian of the domestic afterlife, a peaceful realm where the souls of the faithful found rest. But now, those souls became her playthings. She would pluck the most handsome of her newly arrived servants from their eternal duties, forcing them to pleasure her in her chambers. She would gorge herself on their essence as she gorged herself on food, taking and taking until they were hollow shells, then discarding them for the next.

On Olympus, the situation had become a crisis. Zeus, who had initially been amused, now saw the danger. A goddess was only as powerful as her worshippers, and Hestia's worshippers were a cancer, spreading through the mortal realm and corrupting the very essence of their goddess.

"Something must be done," Zeus declared, his voice echoing through the hall. "Hestia is lost to us. She has become a monster of her own making."

The gods murmured their agreement. The goddess of the hearth had become a bloated, lustful, greedy parody of herself. And in the mortal realm, Lykos's cult continued to grow, unaware that the gentle goddess they had once mocked had been consumed by the very excess they celebrated. The stage was set for a reckoning, a divine intervention that would either save Hestia or destroy her completely.

The corruption of Hestia was a vicious cycle, one that fed upon itself with terrifying efficiency. As Lykos's cult grew in number and debauchery, the sheer volume of their sacrifices and prayers poured into the goddess like a dark, intoxicating wine. And just as a mortal might become drunk on such a brew, so too did Hestia become intoxicated by the raw power of their devotion.

She had always been a goddess of modest power, her influence felt in the warmth of a hearth, the comfort of a home, the peace of a family meal. But now, with thousands of fanatics screaming her name, offering her mountains of food and drink, and performing obscene acts in her honor, her power swelled to unprecedented heights.

She could feel it coursing through her, a heady, pulsating energy that made her former self seem like a distant memory. She was no longer just Hestia, the quiet one; she was Hestia, the goddess of the feast, the goddess of passion, the goddess of excess.

And with this newfound power came a newfound desire to use it.

One evening, as Lykos lay in a drunken stupor after a particularly wild ritual, he had a dream. He found himself standing not in his crude temple, but in a vast, opulent hall. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and sweet perfume. Before him, on a throne of woven firelight, sat a figure he recognized, yet did not.

It was Hestia, but a Hestia transformed. Her body was massive, her flesh overflowing the sides of her throne. Her face, once gentle, was now a mask of greed and lust, her eyes gleaming with a fierce, almost manic light.

"Lykos," she said, her voice a deep, rumbling purr that seemed to shake the very foundations of his dream. "My faithful servant."

Lykos, even in his dream, felt a surge of both terror and triumph. He had done it. He had gotten the attention of a goddess.

"M-my goddess," he stammered, falling to his knees. "I live only to serve you."

Hestia laughed, a sound like boulders grinding together. "Serve me? You have done more than serve me, little mortal. You have awakened me. You have shown me what true worship can be."

She leaned forward, her immense body shifting with the movement. "You have given me so much, and now, I shall give to you. You will have fame, fortune, power. Your name will be known across the land. Your cult will grow until every hearth in every home bears my mark, and your name will be spoken with reverence."

Lykos woke the next morning with a pounding head and a heart full of ambition. The dream had felt so real, so vivid. And as the days passed, he began to believe it was more than a dream.

His small farm, which had been struggling for years, suddenly produced a bountiful harvest. His flocks multiplied. Gold coins appeared in his coffers, seemingly from nowhere. When he spoke, people listened, drawn to him by a charisma he had never before possessed.

The goddess was keeping her promise.

In his dreams, she appeared to him again and again, her form growing more monstrous with each visit. She would whisper instructions, guide him, praise him for his depravity. She began to interact more directly with the mortal world, sending omens and portents that Lykos's followers interpreted as signs of her divine favor. A lightning strike that split an old oak tree was seen as a message. A sudden, bountiful catch of fish in the river was a gift from the goddess.

Under her guidance, the cult became a powerful force. They were no longer just a group of drunken villagers; they were a political and religious movement, with Lykos as their undisputed leader. He used his newfound wealth and influence to build grander temples, attract more followers, and crush anyone who dared to speak against him.

Hestia watched it all from her throne on Olympus, a greedy smile on her face. She was growing stronger every day, fed by the power of her cult. She was no longer the gentle goddess of the hearth; she was a goddess of power, of ambition, of excess. And she would do anything to ensure that power continued to grow. The line between the divine and the mortal was blurring, and Hestia, in her gluttony and lust, was eager to cross it.

The goddess's words in Lykos's dreams were not mere compliments. They were declarations of war, whispered with a divine venom that made the mortal's blood run cold with excitement and dread.

"You have given me a taste of true power, Lykos," Hestia rumbled, her form seeming to swell with each word, her many chins quivering with divine fury. "For millennia, I have sat quietly by my hearth, content with scraps of devotion while my siblings—Zeus with his thunder, Athena with her wisdom, Aphrodite with her lust—feasted on the adoration of millions. They built grand temples, inspired epic poems, commanded armies. And what did I receive? A whispered prayer at a family dinner? A crust of bread tossed into the flames?"

Her eyes, once soft and warm, now blazed with an inferno of resentment. "No more. The age of the hearth is over. The age of the feast has begun. And you, my faithful servant, will be my instrument."

Lykos, kneeling in the dream-scape, felt a surge of purpose unlike anything he had ever known. He was no longer a grieving widower, no longer a simple farmer. He was the chosen one of a goddess, the vessel of her divine ambition.

"What would you have me do, my goddess?" he asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and ecstasy.

Hestia leaned forward, her immense frame casting a shadow over him despite the dream's ethereal light. "You must do more than convert, Lykos. You must conquer. The other gods still hold sway over the hearts of mortals. Their temples stand as monuments to their power, their priests as conduits for their influence. This must end."

She paused, her breath coming in great, heaving gasps. "Every temple you defile, every shrine you demolish, every priest you silence, is a wound you inflict upon my rivals. Their power is rooted in the faith of mortals. Sever that root, and they will wither. And as they weaken, I will grow stronger. The power you steal from them will flow directly to me, and through me, to you."

Lykos awoke with a start, the goddess's commands echoing in his mind. The dream had been more vivid than any before, more real. He knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that this was not just a vision but a divine decree.

That very day, he gathered his most loyal followers. They were no longer just drunken revelers; they were now an army, a fanatical legion dedicated to the ascendancy of their goddess.

"The goddess has spoken to me," he announced, his voice filled with a new, terrifying authority. "She has shown me the path to her true glory, and to our own. We will no longer be content with our own worship. We must cleanse the land of the false gods who have kept our goddess in chains for so long."

His followers, their minds already clouded by drink and fervor, erupted in cheers. They saw not a madman but a prophet, a messiah leading them to a new, glorious future.

Their first target was a small, elegant temple dedicated to Athena on the outskirts of a neighboring village. Under the cover of night, Lykos and his followers descended upon it. They smashed the beautiful statue of the goddess, defaced the walls with obscene symbols dedicated to Hestia, and dragged the priestess from her chambers.

"For Hestia!" they screamed as they set fire to the sacred scrolls and desecrated the altar.

As the temple burned, Lykos felt a surge of power, a dark energy coursing through him. He could almost hear the goddess's laughter in his mind, feel her divine pleasure at the destruction.

This was only the beginning. They would move from village to village, town to town, a plague of divine fury, tearing down the temples of Zeus, desecrating the shrines of Apollo, slaughtering the followers of Poseidon. With each act of desecration, Hestia grew stronger, her divine form bloating with stolen power, her influence over the mortal realm expanding like a dark stain.

The other gods would not stand idly by forever. A war was coming, a war between the old gods and the new, between the gentle hearth and the all-consuming fire. And Lykos, the once-humble farmer, would be at its very center, the chosen champion of a goddess who would stop at nothing to claim the world as her own.

The campaign of terror waged by Lykos and his followers continued for months, a dark tide of destruction that swept across the land. Temples fell, priests were slaughtered, and the symbols of the ancient gods were defiled and replaced with the crude, gluttonous image of the new Hestia. With each act of desecration, the goddess's power grew, a dark and bloated thing that cast a shadow over Olympus itself.

The other gods, at first amused by Hestia's transformation, then concerned, were now alarmed. The balance of power was shifting, and shifting rapidly.

"She must be stopped," declared Zeus, his thunderbolt crackling in his hand as he paced the great hall of Olympus. "She has gone mad. She is consuming the faith meant for all of us, twisting it into something grotesque."

Athena, her grey eyes flashing with divine wisdom and fury, nodded. "Her followers are not merely worshippers; they are an army of fanatics. They destroy all that is sacred, all that is good, in her name."

Even Ares, the god of war, who might have appreciated the carnage, was troubled. "This is not war, Father. This is gluttony. She devours everything—land, faith, power. Soon, there will be nothing left but her."

And so, the gods of Olympus descended to the mortal realm to confront their sister. They came with thunder and lightning, with wisdom and war, with beauty and the sea. They found Hestia in the grand temple that Lykos had built for her, a monstrous structure of black marble and twisted gold, where the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and something darker, something metallic.

The goddess herself was a horrifying sight. She was no longer merely fat; she was a mountain of flesh, her body straining against the very fabric of reality. Her skin was stretched taut, shiny and unnatural. Her eyes were wild, burning with a mad, divine hunger. Around her, her followers writhed in a constant, obscene orgy of worship, their forms gaunt and feverish, their minds completely consumed by their goddess.

"Sister!" boomed Zeus, his voice shaking the very foundations of the temple. "This ends now! You have broken the divine covenant, you have perverted the sacred trust between gods and mortals!"

Hestia turned, her massive form moving with a surprising, terrifying grace. She laughed, a sound that made the very stones weep.

"Brother," she purred, her voice a deep, rumbling earthquake. "You come to stop me? You come to lecture me on covenants? Where were your covenants when you took what you wanted? Where was your respect when you feasted on the adoration that should have been shared?"

She rose to her feet, her body swelling, growing even larger. "I am no longer the gentle hearth-tender. I am the fire that consumes all. I am the hunger that can never be sated. And I will have what is mine."

With that, she attacked. She did not wield a weapon, but her very being was a weapon. She moved with impossible speed for her size, her flesh slamming into Ares with the force of a mountain, sending the god of war crashing through the temple wall. She opened her mouth, not to speak, but to unleash a wave of pure, divine energy that sent Athena tumbling.

The gods fought back with all their might. Zeus hurled his thunderbolts, which exploded against Hestia's flesh, burning it but not stopping her. Poseidon summoned a tidal wave, which she drank as if it were wine. Aphrodite tried to ensnare her with chains of desire, but Hestia's hunger was greater than any lust, and she broke them easily.

One by one, the gods fell. Not killed, for gods are immortal, but defeated, their divine forms battered and broken, their power flickering like dying candles.

And then, the true horror began.

As each god lay defeated, Hestia would approach them, her eyes gleaming with a terrifying, unholy light. She would open her mouth, wider and wider, until it was a vast, gaping maw that defied the laws of physics. Then, with a sound like the universe tearing, she would begin to... consume them.

She did not eat their bodies, but their essence, their power, their very divinity. Zeus, the king of the gods, was drawn into that maw, his thunder and lightning absorbed into her being, his might becoming her own. Athena's wisdom, Ares's war, Aphrodite's love—all of it was sucked into the endless void of Hestia's hunger.

The gods screamed, a sound of pure, divine agony that would drive any mortal who heard it to madness. They screamed as their identities, their very selves, were unraveled and absorbed.

When it was over, Hestia stood alone in the ruins of the temple, her body now a grotesque amalgamation of all the gods she had consumed. Lightning crackled around her. Wisdom gleamed in her eyes. War radiated from her form. She was no longer just Hestia; she was all of them, and none of them. She was a new god, a monstrous god, born of gluttony and envy.

Lykos, who had watched the entire battle from a safe distance, fell to his knees, his mind shattered by the awesome, terrible power of the goddess he had helped create.

"My goddess," he whispered, his voice a mixture of terror and reverence. "What have I done?"

Hestia turned, her many eyes fixing upon him. She smiled, a horrifying, multi-faceted smile.

"You have done well, my faithful servant," she rumbled, her voice now a chorus of all the gods she had consumed. "And now, you shall be rewarded. You shall become a part of me, forever."

And as Lykos screamed, the goddess opened her maw once more, and the mortal who had dared to fuck with a goddess was consumed, body and soul, into the endless, hungry void of the new, all-powerful deity.

The temple of the new Hestia had become a charnel house of divine excess. Where once stood a simple hearth, now towered a monstrous structure of black marble and twisted gold, its corridors echoing with the sounds of unholy worship. The cult, once a handful of drunken villagers, had swelled to a vast, fanatical army that spanned the known world, from the shores of Greece to the heart of Rome.

Lykos, or what remained of him, was now a permanent fixture in the temple's main chamber. He had not been killed, but transformed. His body was a grotesque parody of its former self, twisted and misshapen, his mind a shattered vessel of pure devotion to the goddess. He was her high priest, her mouthpiece, her pet.

"Bring forth the offerings!" he screeched, his voice a broken, reedy thing that carried an unnatural power.

The cultists, their faces painted with obscene symbols, their bodies gaunt from fasting and feverish from drink, dragged forth the day's sacrifices. They were not animals, but people—prisoners taken from conquered lands, heretics who refused to bow to the new goddess, even some of the cult's own members who had fallen from favor.

The air was thick with the smell of blood, incense, and something far more foul. The great altar, once a place of simple offerings, was now a slab of stained black stone, surrounded by channels to catch the flowing blood.

As the cultists chanted, their voices rising in a frenzied, discordant hymn, Lykos approached the first sacrifice, a young woman from a village that had dared to resist. With a ritualistic slowness, he carved the symbol of Hestia—a twisted, hungry flame—into her chest. The woman screamed, a sound that was lost in the cacophony of the chanting. Then, with a gleaming obsidian knife, he cut out her heart.

He held the still-beating organ aloft, the blood dripping down his arm. "For Hestia!" he cried. "The goddess of all hunger!"

The cultists went wild. They fell upon the body, not with reverence, but with a savage, cannibalistic frenzy. They tore at the flesh with their hands and teeth, their faces smeared with blood and gore. Others, overcome by a different kind of lust, mounted the still-warm corpses, their bodies writhing in a grotesque parody of passion.

In a side chamber, a group of cultists had just returned from a successful raid. They had sacked a temple dedicated to Demeter, the goddess of the harvest. They had not just destroyed it; they had defiled it in every conceivable way. They had smashed her statues, burned her sacred scrolls, and urinated on her altar. Now, as a final act of desecration, they had brought back the temple's head priest and his sister, both of whom had been forced to watch the destruction.

"You will bow to the new goddess," sneered one of the cultists, a brutish man named Kratos. "Or you will join the feast."

The priest, a man of faith named Theron, spat on the ground. "I will bow to no false idol. Demeter will avenge us."

Kratos laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Demeter is gone. Hestia consumed her. There is no one left to avenge you."

With that, he forced the priest to the ground, while another cultist held his sister. What followed was an act of such profound depravity that the very stones of the temple seemed to weep. Kratos and his followers violated the siblings in the most brutal ways imaginable, their acts fueled by a divine madness. They sodomized the priest with a broken statue of Demeter, forced him to perform unspeakable acts with his sister, and finally, as the grand finale, slit both their throats on the very spot where they had just desecrated the ashes of Demeter's temple.

This scene was repeated across the land. In Athens, the Parthenon had been converted into a brothel where cultists could indulge in any perversion they desired, all in the name of Hestia. In Rome, the temple of Jupiter had been turned into a slaughterhouse, the air thick with the screams of sacrifices. In Egypt, the great temples of the Nile were being systematically defiled, their ancient gods absorbed into the ever-growing pantheon of Hestia's consumed divinities.

The cult's influence was absolute. Kings and emperors bowed to them. Armies marched under their banner. The world had become a feast, and Hestia was the only guest.

And in the heart of her great temple, the goddess herself watched it all. Her massive, bloated form was now a grotesque tapestry of all the gods she had consumed. Lightning flickered around her. Wisdom gleamed in her many eyes. War radiated from her very being. She was the goddess of everything, and therefore, the goddess of nothing. She was a black hole of divine power, consuming all light, all hope, all faith.

She smiled, a horrifying, multi-faceted smile, as she watched her followers descend into ever greater depths of depravity. This was her world now. A world of endless hunger, endless excess, endless worship. And she would feast upon it forever.

The great doors of the temple, carved with scenes of unspeakable debauchery, groaned open. The cultists, in the midst of their frenzied orgy of blood and flesh, fell silent. A hush, more profound than any silence, fell over the vast chamber.

She was coming.

The goddess Hestia, no longer the gentle spirit of the hearth, waddled into the mortal realm. Her passage was not a graceful descent but a cataclysmic event. The marble floor cracked under her immense weight. The air grew thick, heavy with the smell of her—a cloying mixture of sweet perfume, rotting meat, and the acrid tang of divine lightning.

She was a mountain of flesh, a grotesque monument to her own gluttony and power. Her skin, once smooth and warm, was now a mottled, stretched canvas, oozing with an unnatural, iridescent sheen. Her many heads—the remnants of the gods she had consumed—twitched and turned independently, each pair of eyes burning with a different, terrible light. Zeus's thunder rumbled in her chest. Athena's wisdom flickered in her gaze. Ares's bloodlust radiated from her form. She was a cacophony of divine power, contained within a single, monstrous body.

As she moved, rolls of fat shifted with a life of their own. Fluids, both divine and foul, dripped from her, sizzling on the stone floor. Her followers, who had grown accustomed to her divine presence, still recoiled at the sight of her in the mortal realm. She was too much, too real, too horrifying.

"My children," she rumbled, her voice a chorus of all the gods she had become. It was the sound of thunder and wisdom, of war and love, all twisted together into something unholy. "I have come."

Lykos, her broken high priest, shuffled forward, his twisted body trembling with a mixture of terror and ecstasy. "Great Goddess, we are blessed by your presence. We have done as you commanded. The last temples of the old gods have fallen. Their followers have been converted, or... consumed."

Hestia turned her many heads to regard him. A smile, a horrifying, multi-faceted thing, stretched across her faces. "I know, my faithful servant. I have felt each temple fall. I have tasted the despair of their followers as they were absorbed into me. It is... delicious."

She waddled further into the chamber, her passage leaving a trail of slime and shattered stone. She approached the great altar, where the remains of the day's sacrifices still lay in a gory, tangled mess. She dipped one massive, sausage-like finger into the congealing blood and brought it to her lips, smearing it across her many mouths.

"The old world is gone," she declared, her voice echoing with divine finality. "The gods you once worshipped are now a part of me. Their power is my power. Their influence is my influence. There is no Zeus, no Athena, no Poseidon. There is only Hestia. There is only me."

The cultists erupted in a frenzy of worship, their voices rising in a chaotic, discordant hymn. They prostrated themselves before her, their bodies writhing in religious ecstasy.

Hestia let them worship, her many eyes watching them with a cold, calculating gaze. When their fervor had reached its peak, she raised one massive hand, and silence fell once more.

She turned her many heads, surveying the vast chamber filled with her followers. Her gaze swept over the thousands of fanatics who had carried her banner across the world, who had defiled and destroyed in her name.

"You have served me well," she said, her voice dropping to a low, rumbling purr that shook the very foundations of the temple. "You have been my hands in the mortal realm. You have been my teeth. You have been my hunger."

She paused, her many chins quivering with divine anticipation.

"But our work is not done. The world is vast, and there are still corners where the old faiths cling to life. There are still lands that have not felt my touch. There are still people who do not know the true meaning of worship."

Her form began to glow, a sickening, pulsating light that made the cultists' eyes burn. The air crackled with the power of all the gods she had consumed.

"You will go forth," she commanded, her voice no longer a purr but a divine decree. "You will take my name to every shore, every city, every village. You will not stop at the temples of the old gods. You will not stop at the borders of known lands."

She raised her many arms, her hands clenched into fists the size of boulders.

"You will conquer everything. Every kingdom. Every people. Every creature that walks, crawls, or flies. You will bring them all into my fold. You will make them all a part of me. The world will become my temple. The universe will become my altar. And all that exists will be consumed by my eternal, divine hunger."

Her followers, their minds broken by divine madness, their souls consumed by fanaticism, rose to their feet. They took up their weapons, their torches, their obscene rituals. They were no longer just a cult; they were an apocalypse, unleashed upon the world by a goddess who had forgotten everything but her own insatiable appetite.

"For Hestia!" they screamed, a single, terrifying voice. "Conquer everything!"

And with that cry, they poured out of the temple, a dark tide of divine destruction, ready to fulfill their goddess's final, horrifying command. The world would burn, and from the ashes, a new, monstrous goddess would be born, fed by the annihilation of all things.