Two crimson moons hung in the dark sky, their blood-red glow spilling over the gore-soaked battlefield below.
The battlefield was a horrifying grave, littered with the mangled corpses of humans and monsters.
The bodies sank in a river of blood, its metallic stench drifting across the place.
From above, black crows descended in flocks, their wings beating against the silence as they feasted on the corpses.
A single dark crow descended upon a figure lying in the river of blood.
Before it could land and begin to feast, the formerly immobile figure suddenly moved, causing it to fly away.
The figure's fingers twitched, sending ripples across the blood. A faint breath escaped his lips, harsh and broken.
Slowly, his eyes opened, catching the red glow of the moons above and the gore around him.
As the scene dawned on him, sadness enveloped his being.
His face twisted in agony, in helplessness.
His eyes reddened with anger and regret.
He tilted his head gradually across the gore-soaked field.
The faces of his comrades, their bodies twisted and chopped into grotesque shapes, appeared in his vision.
The nightmarish appearances of the monsters he had struggled to defeat to prevent the end of humanity appeared as well.
With the last bits of strength left in him, he clenched his fist and punched the soaked earth.
The jolt of pain traveled up his arm, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside his head.
His effort.
His sacrifice.
All had gone to waste.
His comrades, the strongest players who had come together from around the world to face the seventeenth chapter of the apocalypse, had been slaughtered.
The monsters that survived had already abandoned the battlefield, spreading like a plague across the world. By now, the fall of humanity was complete.
The realization struck him like a blade.
Humanity's greatest fear—the reality they had fought against for three long years—had finally come to pass.
They had gone through three years of hell, surviving the first sixteen chapters of the apocalypse through blood, sweat, and tears, and yet they failed to beat the seventeenth chapter, rendering all their efforts useless.
'This was their plan all along. To watch humanity strive and fail.'
The seed of hatred bloomed in his mind. His thoughts erupted.
'I bet those self-righteous heavenly bastards are having an orgasm right now!'
Those people who had created the apocalypse, who had rendered the end of the world as nothing but a game and forced every human to play while they watched and reveled from up high.
'If only I could get a second chance. If only I could restart everything with my present knowledge. Maybe. Just maybe, humanity might have a chance at beating the apocalypse.'
But he knew in his heart, such wishes were impossible.
His eyes remained open for a short while.
Afterward, the dizziness of death slowly crept in.
His eyes blinked a few times, struggling to hold on a bit longer.
But the dizziness only grew stronger.
The caws of the crows grew dimmer, and his vision blurred.
With a final sigh, he breathed his last. His eyes closed, never to open again.
Today, September 6, 2033, Desmond Blackridge, alongside thousands of players, failed the seventeenth chapter of the apocalypse, losing Earth as a penalty.