The scene at Megiddo that day was difficult to describe, even by the many witnesses after the fact. A man sat upon an old stone, whetting his blade, and that was the only thing that made sense. Two billion people were there, even though there wasn't room, and they remained distributed across the planet. Many gods were there, towering over the congregation, and yet no taller than an adult. They were thirty-three and yet three-thousand. They were omniscient, and yet confused.
"What is happening?" asked the god.
"You are bound by my oath," spake the man. "I was serious about my promise to you. You forsook one of your flock, which was unwise in the first place. But I made my promise, and I intend to keep it."
"Her death was part of my greater plan," said many of the faces, "I work in mysterious ways." A few, though, said "the devil did it." They all seemed to expect this to save them.
The man with the sword stood and approached the gods, pocketing his whetstone along the way. He stopped before him. "Restore her to life by my side, and I will release you from my previous oath. Otherwise, I will kill you."
Many of him became defiant. "How? With that sword? You'll have to cut through two billion others before you can touch me."
"I would," said the man, "but this is no ordinary blade. In fact, it's so strong and sharp that it could pierce an iron chariot."
In that moment, the people saw something that they had never themselves seen before. Their gods were afraid. And, in that moment, the man thrust his sword under the gods' ribcage and into their heart, and the blade was multiplied across them all.
By the time that the blade was pulled out, the witnesses were gone, except that they were wherever they'd been the whole time. None of them were terribly affected by what they thought that they'd seen, though.
After all, they'd never really believed that particular set of fairy tales, right?