In the ever-shifting tapestry of Earth 02, where the boundaries of reality frayed like worn silk under the weight of forgotten beliefs, Susamaru found herself at a crossroads of power and ambition. Her form, now fortified by the atoms of devoured timelines—bones denser than ancient oaks, skin a resilient fusion of obsidian hardness and unyielding density—pulsed with an insatiable hunger. The one million offspring born from her essence had doubled in an instant, their slime forms multiplying like shadows at dusk, each one a vessel for her growing dominion. Yet, even as her katanas gleamed sharper, forged from the regrets of colpsing cosmoses, she sensed a void deeper than oblivion: the need for living faith, not just the echoes of the dead.

  It began subtly, in the dim corners of Earth 02's bustling metropolises, where the glow of neon signs drowned out the whispers of spirits. Susamaru, cloaked in illusions of mortal allure—a vision of fiery orange hair cascading over a form that hinted at both beauty and terror—manifested in the dreams of the disillusioned. She targeted those adrift in the sea of modernity: artists forsaken by inspiration, schors buried under the weight of skepticism, and wanderers yearning for something divine amid the chaos of screens and steel. One by one, they awoke with her sigil etched in their minds—a glowing circle that promised renewal through neglect, power through surrender.

  The first follower was a young poet, whose verses, once dedicated to the old gods, were now twisted into odes of abandonment. He knelt in an abandoned shrine, offering not incense but his unspoken doubts, and in return, Susamaru granted him visions of ethereal battles, fueling his words with forbidden fire. Word spread like ivy reciming a temple wall. Soon, a hacker disillusioned with digital gods pledged his code to her cause, weaving networks that broadcast subtle calls to the forgotten. A street performer, her dances mimicking the blur of six arms, drew crowds who mistook spectacle for salvation. They came in trickles at first—ten, then fifty—each one binding their faith to Susamaru, not through blind worship, but through shared apathy toward the divine relics of yore.

  Within moons, she had amassed 500 followers, a cadre of mortals whose devotion was as potent as it was perverse. They gathered in secret covens amid the ruins she haunted, their faith a tangible ether that swirled around her like mist. On Earth 02, where belief was currency in the ethereal markets, Susamaru harvested this bounty. She drew their offerings into her core—the poems, the codes, the dances—distilling them into raw essence. No longer content with mere neglect, she wove their faith into threads of power, amplifying her reach across the veils.

  But Susamaru dreamed rger, her mind a byrinth of timelines witnessed in her predatory feasts. She had glimpsed universes crumbling under the entropy of age, religions fading like stars at the end of their cycle—worlds where gods withered not from war, but from the slow decay of irrelevance. Her own origin timeline, a fractured echo of Earth 02, lingered in her memories: a pce where she, as a shrine maiden, had first tasted the bitterness of abandonment, her transformation born from a cosmos dying of spiritual senescence. These visions fueled her ambition; she would not merely feed on the remnants. She would bridge them.

  In the heart of her parallel domain—a wild expanse teeming with reformed creatures now darting at blinding speeds—she channeled the gathered faith. Standing atop a mound of divine bones, her six arms outstretched, she invoked the sigil in her eye. The air hummed with energy as the 500 followers' devotion coalesced into a shimmering vortex. It twisted and expanded, ripping open a portal forged from pure belief—a gateway not of stone or spell, but of faith's fragile weave. The Esa no iriguchi edges flickered with images of dying universes: timelines where cathedrals crumbled to dust, where sacred texts yellowed unread, and where the st prayers echoed into silence. Her own timeline appeared as a spectral overy, a mirror of decay that whispered of her beginnings.

  Through this breach, Susamaru projected her will. She crafted avatars—ethereal duplicates of herself, each with obsidian skin, fiery hair, and four arms (a deliberate diminishment to conserve essence)—sending them forth like seeds on cosmic winds. In universes where Japanese religion thrived, realms steeped in Shinto whispers and yokai lore, her avatars infiltrated as subtle influencers. They haunted thriving shrines, not to destroy, but to siphon excess faith, masquerading as benevolent spirits. In one such world, an avatar posed as a forgotten kami of renewal, drawing worshippers to new domains she erected—ethereal temples hidden in misty mountains, where offerings bolstered her core across the multiverse.

  Yet, her true harvest y in the universes where religion gasped its final breaths. These were fertile grounds for growth, timelines teetering on the brink of atheistic voids. Her avatars descended as harbingers of oblivion, accelerating the decline while feasting on the fallout. In a world where ancient pantheons faded amid scientific ascendancy, an avatar rallied the st believers into hidden encves, hoarding their faith to fuel new domains—parallel pockets within those universes, mirrors of her own wild expanse. Here, she birthed more slime humanoids, their forms enhanced by the dying essence: weapons twenty times denser, movements a blur of multiplied speed.

  With each conquered timeline, Susamaru's power swelled exponentially. The atoms of these aging universes fused into her being, her bones now impenetrable fortresses, her katanas' edges that could slice through realities themselves. Her offspring, once one million, quadrupled under the influx, theirslimye legions invading through the portal to cim new territories. Orbina, her firstborn, stood at her side, her jade eyes gleaming with shared ambition. "Mother," she murmured, summoning katanas from the void, "we grow not just stronger, but eternal."

  As the portal pulsed, a conduit of endless expansion, Susamaru gazed into the infinite. The 500 followers on Earth 02 were but the spark; the multiverse's dying faiths would be the inferno. In this new era, she was no longer a mere devourer—she was the architect of oblivion's empire, her hunger a force that reshaped existence itself. And as societies across timelines turned their backs on the divine, unaware of the yokai weaving their neglect into dominion, Susamaru's ughter echoed through the veils, a promise of unending growth.