In the depths of Room 9,772,100, where the laws of physics have yet to be written, the void reigns supreme. This is a womb for a reality not yet fully formed, a cold, silent incubator. In the midst of that absolute darkness floats Yue—the premature fetus of the New World. Her form is pitiful; her lower body is unformed, fading into a glitchy digital mist, while her slender neck is overgrown with a fragile, withered flower. She is the living consequence of a forced contract, an anomaly that simply should not exist.
"KRSSHHHHH..."
A painful static sound tears through that primordial silence. Reality before Yue is forcibly split apart, like rotten cloth ripped by two giant hands. From the gaping dimensional rift, black smoke smelling of oil and death billows in. Olbogeolg steps out, his steel feet treading on nothingness that instantly solidifies under his massive weight.
The Prince of Conquest stands silent, staring at Yue's deformed figure. Optical lenses behind his steel mask rotate, scanning the failure of creation before him. He raises his hand, encased in a heavy steel gauntlet. From between the armor joints, thick black fluid—blood mixed with divine lubricant—seeps out, coating his cold fingers.
He stares at the black stain on his hand, then looks back at Yue.
Olbogeolg:
"Ahh... this sight..."
His voice echoes, heavy and filled with ancient disappointment.
Olbogeolg:
"The End was supposed to be born into a new Beginning, and a new Beginning absolutely requires a perfect End... Yet look at this. The Old World refuses to die, rotting where it stands, so this New World is born breech... not truly alive, yet unable to die."
He clenches his fist, letting the black blood drip into the void.
Olbogeolg:
"Pathetic. Madela... you were willing to ruin this sacred cycle just to indulge your ego above all else..."
With a stiff movement accompanied by the hiss of hydraulics, Olbogeolg turns his back on Yue. He no longer cares for the deformed fetus. The problem is not here, but at the root.
Olbogeolg:
"The dog slipping its leash of fate... Oldred."
He speaks the name with a tone that sounds like a final death sentence.
Olbogeolg:
"Killing you is the final necessary step. I will slaughter you, so that the new Beginning may finally breathe."
Then, the ritual begins.
Olbogeolg raises his hand, smeared with black blood, to his face. With a horrific solemnity, he smears the thick liquid onto the surface of his steel mask, painting a vertical line over the symbol of the rose and the cracked clock. A war anointing.
"WHIRRRR-KLANK!"
Suddenly, armor plates along Olbogeolg's back open wide, releasing hissing steam. Artificial flesh and cables inside shift, revealing his sturdy spinal column, glistening wet with oil.
With a jerking motion, his right hand reaches back, gripping the base of his own neck.
"GRIND... CRACK!!"
The sound of bone grinding against metal sounds harrowing. Olbogeolg does not draw a sword from a scabbard; he makes himself the scabbard. With one brutal pull that sprays black fluid in all directions, he forcibly drags his entire spinal column out of his own body.
He pulls it, keeps pulling it, until his own skull is dragged out from inside his steel helmet—leaving the helmet empty yet somehow remaining upright, moved by the sheer will of the Principle.
Now, in his hand is grasped the most horrific weapon: a giant whip-sword made of his own sharp, serrated spine, with his own skull serving as the macabre pommel.
The empty armored shell stands tall, holding the bone of its own life as an instrument of death.
Olbogeolg pivots his body. He swings the bone sword with atom-splitting force.
"SLASH!"
The void before him splits once again. Without looking back at the failed world fetus, Olbogeolg steps into the dimensional rift, vanishing to hunt the mad dog that has disrupted the order of the universe.