Lilla Frescativägen 4A, SE-114 18 Stockholm, Sweden, Earth.
The grand hall of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers. Rows of chairs were filled with distinguished scientists, dignitaries, and reporters from around the world.
At the front, the golden Nobel medal gleamed on a velvet cushion—a symbol of achievement that few had the privilege to touch. Finally, years of sleepless nights in labs, experiments gone wrong, and breakthroughs at last bore fruit in this moment.
The announcer's voice rang out: "The Borlaug Field Award is presented to Phill Sutton for his groundbreaking work in sustainable crop engineering, which has improved farming practices and transformed food security across multiple continents."
The audience erupted into applause, a wave of clapping and murmurs washing over the hall. But it wasn't over yet.
The announcer's voice rang out once more: "The Norman Borlaug Award is presented to Phill Sutton, recognizing outstanding contributions to agriculture and food security by improving the quality, quantity, or availability of food worldwide."
Unlike the Nobel Prizes, there isn't a dedicated prize for agriculture, but the World Food Prize is widely regarded as the highest international recognition in this field.
Agriculture.
Phill Sutton, in the most common practical terms, is someone who works the land—a farmer. More formally, people call him an agriculturist, or, in professional circles, an agronomist: a scientist and expert in soil management and crop production.
Finally, a ripple of applause swept through the hall, growing into a thunderous ovation. Phill Sutton, a name that would now be remembered in history, smiled through the ache of joy and exhaustion alike.
Phill's heart thumped wildly. He approached the podium, each step feeling both impossibly long and incredibly fleeting.
One. Two. Each step felt deliberate, measured, like walking through the weight of history itself.
A few tears glistened in his eyes.
The roar of applause pressed around him, yet for a fleeting moment, all he could see were the faces of farmers, scientists, and children—lives touched by his work… no, our work.
"Thank you," he said, the medal heavy against his chest. "This is not my achievement alone. It belongs to every hand that has tilled the soil, every mind that has dreamed of feeding the world sustainably."
The hall erupted again—flashes of cameras flickering like lightning, hands clapping in waves, and voices calling his name. And as he stood there, he felt the full weight of the journey—the struggles, the failures, the hope—and a quiet pride that this moment was bigger than himself.
Until... CRACK!
The applause was still echoing in the hall when a sudden, sharp crack shattered the celebration. A bullet tore through the grand hall, smashing the crystal chandeliers.
Glass rained down like jagged shards, scattering across the polished marble floor. Screams erupted, panic spreading like wildfire.
Phill barely had time to react. Another shot struck him in the chest. He staggered, eyes wide in shock, as the medal fell from his chest, rolling across the shards of shattered glass.
Assassination!
Clearly, someone had targeted him. Security rushed forward, but it was too late. Phill collapsed onto the stage, blood soaking through his shirt and tuxedo. For a heartbeat, silence gripped the hall... No—the only thing that filled his mind was pain. Soul-scraping, world-ending pain!
The world seemed to tilt, the sounds of applause replaced by cries and chaos. Shrill wails of reporters and attendees, the collective gasp of disbelief, filled the grand hall. People dove for cover, overturning chairs and ducking beneath tables.
Phill would have convulsed, if the nothingness that surrounded me hadn't held him tight, devouring him piece by tiny piece. His pallid skin seemed to dissolve before my eyes.
Thankfully, the pain lasted only briefly. The rest...he drifted into a drowsy numbness. After that, Phill felt his soul drift away, carried along like a leaf in the wind with no clear destination. He sensed the chill of death's hand guiding him toward the afterlife.
On a different plane—the Blue Star Realm.
The fires of war in the mortal plane blazed ever fiercer, while all living beings were caught in the raging battle between fire elementals and demons. All roads had led to this moment. Only two outcomes remained: a world of prosperity… or complete destruction.
The epicenter of the chaos was the city of Gondor, which, together with the vast forest that had once surrounded it, was now alive with turmoil. Once proud, it had become a battleground where gods and demons, light and dark, clashed on the frontlines.
Countless demons from countless dimensions had gathered here. Each one was strange and unique, yet they shared two things in common: the abyssal fire branded into them through summoning, and a temper as volatile as the flames they carried. Nobody knew how Gawain had done it, yet he had indeed accomplished the impossible.
The chaotic domain was filled with dense dimensional cracks rather than a blue sky. Angels and demons were fighting everywhere, yet it was impossible for either side to gain the upper hand.
BANG! SQUELCH—
"Is there an end to this? They're just like cockroaches. I have to stomp out every one that I meet. This is so tiring."
The Holy Pope Korolan began to complain as it felt like they were making zero progress. No matter how many troops were sent here, and no matter how many powerful War Angels and gods were sent to this battle, the endless number of demons would still block their path.
"...We'll probably be able to walk significantly faster if you retract your personal domain..."
Trying to forcibly attack this chaotic domain wasn't a wise decision by the Holy Church Faction. The tattered and chaotic dimensional laws here made this the most disadvantageous battlefield possible for any creatures of order, but demons loved this type of battlefield the most, as they were skilled in melee combat and chaotic battles.
"What are you saying? Eliminate the greatest toxin in the world. Destroy Demon King Shupnus, and obliterating the gateway in the dimensional barrier is our top priority!"
If ordinary people were to see those two figures chatting like old friends, they would probably be stunned into silence. After all, the one speaking with the Holy Pope was none other than the King of the Dead—the one who had chosen to forsake humanity and embrace death... the Lich, Karwenz.
Pope Korolan then continued, "...However, Master Karwenz, I never expected you to release both your time, death, and space domain simultaneously. I must apologize for previously underestimating your magical abilities. But doing this will exhaust your mana. You should—"
Karwenz waved his bony hand and interrupted Pope Korolan as he glanced at the sky.
A radiant pegasus, its wings shimmering with pure light, soared in circles overhead.
"He's finally here..."