In a battlefield at the very end of the universe.
The stench of blood hung heavy in the air, thick enough to suffocate the heavens themselves.
Broken banners fluttered in the faint breeze, carrying no pride, only the stink of death.
The soil had long since disappeared beneath a mountain of corpses—gods, beasts, and mortals alike, reduced to nothing but pale reminders of a war too long endured.
At the summit of that carnage, a lone figure sat.
His snow-white lashes hid half-lidded crimson eyes, and his long white hair clung damply to his bare shoulders.
With a sword in one hand, he seemed less a warrior than a reaper who had simply grown tired of his work.
Below him, crawling from the blood and entrails, was the last god of this world.
The so-called Evil God of World 7777777.
His once-radiant form had withered into something desperate, pale hands clutching at the filth as he dragged himself forward.
His voice cracked as he raised it toward the figure above him.
