On the corpse of a collapsed star, a figure sat.
His throne was the ashes of creation. His crown was the silence of the void. Behind him stretched the ruin of a thousand galaxies—burning, collapsing, devouring themselves in endless loops of death.
He smiled.
And what he watched was a boy.
A boy with white hair, drenched in blood not his own. His blade carved through flesh, bone, and screams, leaving corpses piled in mountains. The stench of iron filled the air, the ground a swamp of crimson mud. His eyes were hollow, his lips twisted into a deranged grin.
The figure leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm as if entertained. Then he laughed—low, guttural, reverberating across the stars until entire constellations cracked from the sound.
"Pathetic. Worthless. Look at you."
The scene shifted with a thought.
Now the boy knelt in rubble, clutching the body of a girl. Her chest was caved in, her eyes glassy, her lips frozen mid-word. He sobbed into her hair, begging her to wake. Begging her not to leave him alone.
"Don't… don't go… please, not you… not you!"
The figure cackled louder, his voice distorting like rusted blades scraping together.
"Cry. Break. Shatter. That's all you're good for."
The scene twisted again.
The boy was running through fire, dragging his mangled body, reaching for outstretched hands that vanished just as he touched them. His skin melted, his screams drowned in the roar of collapsing towers.
Twist.
The boy was stabbing again and again, his knife sawing through flesh, even as his mind fractured from the horror of what his hands had done. Blood rained down his face like baptism.
Twist.
The boy was chained, kneeling in the dark, as faceless executioners tore him apart piece by piece, their laughter filling the black void.
Twist.
Every path led to slaughter.
Every ending left him broken.
Every timeline ended in despair.
And the figure—sitting on his throne of ruin—laughed louder each time. His laughter grew wild, insane, like the cackling of a god who had forgotten what mercy was. It shook the galaxies around him, collapsing suns into black holes, snuffing out worlds by the millions. Entire civilizations winked out in the echoes of his amusement.
"Do you see it, boy? Do you understand? You're nothing. Nothing but a worm crawling in dirt. Pathetic. Worthless. A joke written into eternity."
He leaned back, eyes wide, smile tearing across the endless dark. His laughter became unhinged, almost joyous, as though tragedy itself were the sweetest song.
The boy screamed, sobbed, clawed at the heavens in every reality. It did not matter. His fate was shackled. His destiny: despair.
And still the figure watched. Still he smiled. Still he laughed as universes collapsed one after another, their death cries woven into his insanity.
At last, blood streamed from the figure's eyes—thick, dark, endless. Yet even as crimson tears ran down his faceless form, his grin never faltered.
He whispered—slow, deliberate, each word a nail hammered into eternity:
"The end… make it possible, you piece of shit."
Then he threw his head back and howled with laughter, a mad, broken sound that consumed all of creation.
A laughter so loud it drowned the screams of millions.
A laughter so cruel it made even dying stars shiver.
A laughter that promised there would be no salvation, no escape—only suffering without end.
And the boy's cries—raw, broken, endless—were nothing but fuel for the god of ruin seated on the grave of the cosmos.
The laughter still echoed when the boy fell.
His white hair was drenched in blood, his chest torn open, his breath shallow. Around him stretched the ruins of all things—stars collapsed, galaxies shredded, worlds ground into dust. The universe itself, as though ashamed of its broken state, began to heal.
Fragments of reality stitched themselves back together. Dead suns reignited. Corpses of worlds knit into wholeness. Creation groaned, pulling itself upright as though to erase the boy's existence—the single flaw, the lone error staining its perfection.
Cosmic chains, woven of starlight and fire, lashed out at him. Blades of light rained from the heavens, seeking to pierce his flesh, to carve him into nothing. The universe itself wanted him dead.
But this time, the boy did not scream.
His lips parted, but no words came. His eyes, hollow yet unyielding, lifted upward.
He whispered only one thing.
"Fuck you."
The attacks slammed into him, ripping through his body, burning him from within. And still he did not cry. He did not beg. He only raised a trembling hand toward the sky.
Toward a star.
A single star that had not gone out. It burned faintly, stubbornly, in the sea of ruin—small, fragile, but unbroken. Amid the collapse of all creation, it still shone.
His bloodied fingers stretched toward it, as though that tiny glimmer of light was all that mattered. As though, even in annihilation, it was enough.
And as he reached, something changed.
The figure on the collapsed star froze. His laughter caught in his throat. His smile fractured.
For the first time in eternity, his form trembled. Cracks spread across his shadowy body, light bleeding from the fissures. His cruel eyes widened as his voice faltered into silence.
The boy's gaze never left that star.
The figure's body unraveled into dust.
One moment he was a god, laughing over the death of millions.
The next, he was nothing more than ash scattered across a collapsing cosmos.
The boy bled, broken, reaching for the impossible.
The star flickered, still alive in the ruins.
And the void whispered, not with laughter this time—
—but with silence.
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